


Seeking Vengeance

by dvrthncx



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvrthncx/pseuds/dvrthncx
Summary: A long time ago in a galaxy far far away....A fragile peace stands between the recently returned Sith Empire and the Republic. While the Jedi have retreated to Tython to rebuild their shattered order after the attack of Coruscant, the Republic struggles to maintain the loyalty of separatist factions on Ord Mantel. On Korriban, the Sith increase their numbers by training new acolytes strong in the force, and Intelligence works tirelessly to ensure the strategic advantage of the Empire.Eight heros emerge at this critical moment. Their actions and the vengeance they each seek are destined to shape the galaxy.((AKA: A whole lot of shit happened to a bunch of idiots who are very dear to me.))Legacy: RoiarthurMain cast:Darth Nox (Tahrimi) - SIMaster Nevarij'a - JKDarth Melwas - SWCipher Agent Marttirs - IAMagdae, Barsen'thor - JCCaptain Haddij - SmugglerShakiru of Mandalore - BHMajor Ait'nelis Cornuail - TrooperSupporting cast:Double Agent Rijalu (SIS)Jedi Knight AethelwyrmaMechthil, Hired GunNPC - companions
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Tahrimi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tahrimi, a slave, suffers immensely and is "rewarded" with the promise of more suffering.

_ Imperial farm planet - Early 10 ATC _

Lechra’s cough wracked Tahrimi’s body, jangling in her mind and setting her nerves on edge. If any of the Sith overseers heard, she knew what would happen—there was only ever one solution for their brutal masters. They had been working in the fields for only a few hours, but the wind that day was brutal, and because it was the dry season the dust clouds would make even the healthiest slave choke when they breathed. But it was worse for Lechra, who had been sick for days with no hope of time for recovery. Tahrimi knew that if she Sith didn’t kill her sister, the illness and the work just might, but she knew her sister to be tough, had to believe that, somehow, she would pull through if only the Sith did not know of her illness. 

All day they worked, with Tahrimi steering her sister farther out into the uncultivated land, trying to keep away from any overseer. The grueling work strained her muscles and her anxiety only served to increase her exhaustion. The hours passed in a blur of sheer terror and mind-numbing fatigue; every moment that Tahrimi’s guard slipped ever so slightly into contented complacency, Lechra would cough, or a Sith would wander too close, and waves of adrenaline would pump anew through her blood and wind up her already over-stressed nervous system. 

“Can’t you  _ try _ to be quieter?” She snapped at her sister once, following a particularly brutal coughing fit after lunch. But her annoyance ebbed almost immediately under the pathetic, suffering gaze of her little sister. Lechra could barely speak for her illness, and she looked as though she were about to faint. Tahrimi looked around and saw no nearby Sith, or at least none paying them any attention. “Okay, just sit here, take my cloak, I’ll do your work for you. You need to rest. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” She settled her sister into a natural seat formed by two rocks that would keep her out of view of the closest Sith overseer. The wind bit into her exposed arms as soon as she removed her cloak, but she didn’t care. What didn’t kill her made her stronger—she had learned that quickly the hard way, many years ago. Of course she could do her sister’s work and her own. Of course she could withstand the cold and the sharp dust. Of course she would do it all without complaining or making any show of discomfort. Of course she would, because she had to. For her sister. She had to keep Lechra alive. She was all Tahrimi had left; the only thing Tahrimi cared about anymore.

Pain. Exhaustion. Tahrimi could feel tears burning in her eyes as she forced her body to carry on working double, even as her every limb protested.  _ I can do this. You can do this. It must be done, and we all know I will succeed,  _ she thought to herself, plunging the plough into the dirt and shoving it several feet forward.  _ I am not weak. The Sith have made me strong. My will has made me strong. Nothing and no one will beat me. _

The work day ended, finally, long after the sun had sunk beyond the horizon and the distant stars of other systems hung coldly in the sky, seeming to tease Tahrimi with their illusion of proximity. She wiped her forehead wearily under her horns when she heard the Sith shouting at them to get back to their bunkers. “Come on, Lek, time to go home,” she murmured as she dragged her tools along in one hand and reached out another to pull her sister up. Lechra slumped against her body, shivering--Tahrimi couldn’t tell if it was from fever or effort to stand. She hugged her sister close and together they struggled back with the rest of the slaves, weary, bleary-eyed, broken. Amongst the crowd of other hunched over, limping, pathetic creatures the two sisters did not stand out, and passed quietly along under the eyes of their overlords. 

In the bunkers, Tahrimi lowered Lechra down onto her cot and covered her in the thin rag the sith allotted them for blankets. “I’m going to go get us food. Sit tight,” Tahrimi murmured. Dragging herself back to her feet, she plodded off to join the queue of other slaves at the back of the bunker which opened into a small corral. At the centre was a great fire where some slaves sat roasting the scraps of meat the sith threw to them each day. Those same slaves distributed the food as evenly as possible, with the sith standing guard. Tahrimi’s stomach twisted painfully when the scent of roasted meat wafted to her. She hadn’t eaten in days. No one got double portions; if a slave wanted to eat, he had to drag his sorry ass to the fire, otherwise he could lay on his cot and starve. So Tahrimi had been giving her sister her portions; she ate half once every three days, to stay alive. The smell of food made her woozy, and she thought she might faint right there for hunger.  _ Pull it together _ , she snapped to herself, clenching her fists as though that might frighten off unconsciousness. 

She shuffled forward with the crowd, her mind drifting in and out of focus. Between hunger and exhaustion, it was all she could do to keep herself standing upright. But she had to feed Lechra; if she did not, her sister would certainly die.  _ Almost there. Just a couple more people and then you can go sith with Lek,  _ she told herself as her mind fogged over again. And then, suddenly, as she floated in a strange limbo which heightened sound and dulled vision, all of her senses seemed to come painfully, vividly alive. Without seeing, Tahrimi  _ saw _ that the sith overseers were paying the horde of slaves no heed; without feeling, she  _ felt _ the bowls of food left unattended by the cook who had turned to tend to the fire; without knowing, she  _ knew _ that this was her chance to feed herself  _ and _ her sister, and no one would be the wiser. Without thinking, Tahrimi acted on this strange, almost  _ living _ instinct that had come over her. She unobtrusively moved forward, squeezed between two of her fellow slaves who looked just as dazed as everyone else; she reached out for the bowls, somehow knowing where they were without knowing, stacked one atop the other, turned and shuffled back the way she had come, just as dead and unassuming as you please. 

By the time she reached Lechra, the strange effect had worn off and the world in all its fuzzy dullness and haze of exhaustion had reclaimed its place. Tahrimi practically fell onto the cot beside her sister. “Here,” she said, handing her sister one of the bowls. 

Between coughs, Lechra frowned slightly, looking at the two bowls with obvious worry. 

Tahrimi just shook her head. “Don’t worry. Just eat.” She alternated between wolfing down her own portion of food and helping Lechra eat. 

When they finished and Tahrimi started unlacing her thin, worn leather shoes to get into bed, Lechra reached out with one weak, skeletal hand and clasped Tahrimi weakly on the forearm. Tahrimi looked up at her sister, laying her own hand over Lechra’s. She was smiling--weakly, and so sadly it broke Tahrimi’s heart. “Everything’s going to be ok. I’ll take care of us, I won’t let us die here,” Tahrimi promised, hoping she did not feel as broken as she felt. She reached out and brushed a strand of her sister’s sweat-soaked light brown hair off her forehead where it had got caught on her horns. Lechra’s skin was still un-marked light-red; they had become slaves before the year when Lechra would have gotten her first tattoos, and though there were other zabrak in the camp, no one had the time or the energy (or the right) to perform the ceremony. It pained Tahrimi every time she thought about it, that her sister should be barred from such an important rite.  _ I cannot let her die un-marked, I cannot. We will get out of this, and she will be welcomed as a mature zabrak properly, just like she deserves,  _ she thought, clenching her jaw to keep back tears which would only distress her sister. 

Tahrimi kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the cot so that she was snuggled close to Lechra. She adjusted their blankets so that Lechra was tucked in tight and hugged her, willing her own minimal body heat to warm up her shivering sister. Within seconds she dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep.

A shriek.

Tahrimi’s blood went cold. As if in slow motion, she turned around. She had been so focused on keeping herself working that she had forgotten to keep a look out for overseers, forgotten to check that her sister was still protected from their view. A Sith stood over Lechra’s frail body, tucked away in the roots between a lone, dying tree, with a look of hateful malice upon his blood-red features. 

_ No. _

The Sith lifted Lercha by her throat with the force and threw her back to the ground. She fell in a heap, a trembling, weak specimen. Easy prey. “So, it seems we have some rotten little vermin who thinks she can take a break!” His voice almost cracked with sadistic glee as he grabbed Lechra by the wrist and dragged her up so her face was level with his. He pinched her cheeks between his hands, hard, and turned her head up so that her watery eyes met his. “Filthy li’el vermin you are, too,” he growled, disgusted, throwing Lechra back down so her back faced up. The untethered his slave-whip and cracked it with brutal precision over Lechra’s boney back, over and over. 

The sudden and strange vivid awareness of the world assaulted Tahrimi again, and suddenly she could  _ feel _ the life leeching out of her sister with each blow that the Sith let fall on her,  _ knew _ irrevocably that her sister was on the brink of death, pushed further across the threshold with every passing second. Anger, desperation, fear: they were alive, a bright and raging fire that had smouldered within her for eight years and which suddenly imbued her limbs with the energy of rage. She launched herself at the Sith, attacking him with a strength she did not know that she possessed. She knocked him back and attacked him with a flurry of punches, pushing harder into that vibrating energy as her sister’s life force grew weaker. In the relatively short time it took the Sith to recover himself and Force-push Tahrimi away, she managed to bruise his face severely—the only part of his body not covered in armor. With a grunt, Tahrimi tried to get back up, ignoring her aching body that trembled with exhaustion, driven only by the feral need to protect her dying sister; but her limbs were unresponsive. No matter how hard she pushed, a force like a steel barrier kept her bowed before the Sith, facing her sister. Their eyes were level. Lechra’s eyes were barely open; what little Tahrimi could see looked glazed over and vague with pain, fatigue, exhaustion.

“Lechra! Lechra, stay alive. Look at me—look at me!” Tahrimi begged, her voice cracking with effort as she strained futilely against the force-hold the Sith exerted over her. “Lechra, no, don’t give in! You will make it through this--I-I’ll get us out of this, I—” She broke off as Lechra’s eyelids drooped further; her voice seemed to stick in her throat, lodged behind sobs so violent they were noiseless. 

“Oh, don’t let’s stop. Your futile pleas are so… delicious,” the Sith said in a silky, morbidly pleased tone.

Tahrimi watched, helpless, horrified, as her sister weakly moved the hand nearest Tahrimi, crawling her fingers painfully over the dirt, reaching out for Tahrimi. 

Desperately, frantically, Tahrimi struggled against her Force bond; she threw herself with all her strength against the invisible steel holding her in place, tried with all her draining might to reach back to Lechra--to hold her hand while she died. Sheer terror seared through her and she actually managed, with difficulty, to raise her hand from her side and extend it towards Lechra. 

Growling angrily, the Sith stomped his food down on Tahrimi’s wrist, cracking it, and held it there. 

Eyes streaming from pain, exertion, and horror, Tahrimi lay helpless and watched Lechra’s final efforts cease, the breath of life leave her body.

Her sobs finally erupted in a tortured scream. “No…. no!  _ No! _ ” She shouted, her voice cracking and her body shivering uncontrollably with pained cries. Writhing suffering, resentment, terror pooled in her chest, building to an uncontrollable pressure. Tahrimi thought she was going to suffocate.  _ This is all his fault _ . She snapped her eyes up and glared at the Sith through burning tears. Just the sight of his face brought the chaotic, oscillating mass in her chest to a boil and in a rush of energy it exploded out of her on the breath of her pain. 

The Sith flew backwards several feet, knocked away by the blast of energy, and with him his hold on Tahrimi. She struggled up and moved over to her sister’s corpse, cradling Lechra’s head in her lap. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” she whispered over and over. 

“So, slave,  _ you _ have Force sensibilities,” the Sith growled, as he stalked back over and leaned over the sisters, leering disdainfully down at the zabrak with bright orange eyes set deep in crimson red skin. “And very strong ones at that.” He chuckled menacingly. “But you’re not stronger than me, alien slime, remember that. I’ll teach you to regret your foolish impertinence.”

Rimi scowled and spit at his feet in utter disrespect. “Do your worst, I dare you,” she snarled. So what if he killed her now? Her sister was gone; she had failed Lechra. She was alone, with nothing left to live for. At the very least she would die standing up against the brute who had ensured her sister’s undeserved death.  _ A worthy end _ . 

The Sith chuckled again. “Oh, I was so hoping that you would say that,” he said with a nasty grin. He straightened up and Tahrimi braced herself for a lightning shock, a Force-push, anything; but he merely turned away from her and stalked off.

Tahrimi did not leave her sister’s side; stayed kneeling on the ground in a daze of dread and utter loss as she held that lifeless corpse, the remains of the person who, until that point, had been the only reason for Tahrimi to live. The abyss of pain that had yawned in her from the very first day of the Empire’s attack on her home expanded to such magnitude in that second that Lechra died that it stopped being an abyss of anything—Tahrimi’s entire being was a negation: she felt nothing, she was nothing. It seemed as though she too had lost her soul, like she was merely a mechanical body devoid of life yet still living. That vibrating energy that had come with the fear and the rage in the moments before and after Lechra’s death had since abated, leaving Tahrimi hollow, powerless, fragile. The only thought, the only semblance of anything tangible that remained to her, was one single line that echoed through that empty cavern that had once been her soul:  _ this is all my fault _ . 

She was vaguely aware of being lifted away from her sister, at some point, pulled up by harsh hands and dragged off somewhere by a Sith; she was only aware because Lechra’s body drifted farther and farther away until it disappeared into the fold of the horizon, abandoned on the ground where she had been slain. Tahrimi would never see her again. And the last thing she would remember was Lechra reaching in vain for her hand. 

Minutes, hours, days could have passed and Tahrimi wouldn’t have known it. She didn’t eat. She didn’t move. She knew she was inside, but she didn’t know where and didn’t care. All she knew was that Lechra was gone and nothing else mattered. Whatever Force sensitivity the Sith claimed she possessed was useless; she could not find Lechra, no matter how hard she tried; all that existed was a great void where a warm heart should have been beating.  _ This is all my fault. If only I had paid more attention in the field; if only I had cared for her better; if only I had been strong enough to defend her… If only I had been strong enough …  _

“She’s as good as dead, milord.”

A strange voice penetrated her thoughts. She knew the speaker was referring to her, but who he was or why she did not know. Did not care. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. 

Tahrimi was aware that she had been moved again at some point, only vaguely registered that she had been put on a starship--and that was because she felt the kind of nauseated that she’d only ever felt the one other time she’d travelled through space: when she was taken from her home planet as a slave to the Imperials. She spent all of her time in her quarters. If she wasn’t asleep, she may as well have been. Emptiness consumed her every waking moment. In fact, she felt more alive and awake in her dreams than when she was actually awake. In her dreams, Lechra lived; her parents lived. They walked together, through lush fields that Tahrimi had never known but which felt as familiar and comfortable as home nonetheless. Sometimes she would not wake right away and they would walk for hours together until they suddenly reached their home on the Zabrak homeworld, and they would all sit together doing nothing but completely content. It was the only happiness—the only emotion at all—that Tahrimi knew for nearly a week. 


	2. Haddij

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haddij, a young pirate, is a badass (to the detriment of the thug Shakiru) and Tatooine has cowboy culture.

_Tatooine - Early 10 ATC_

Leather boots hit the thick dirt which kicked up and carried into the air on the whipping desert wind. The day was not yet hot, for the twin suns were only just rising over dark jutting ridges of the Jundland Wastes and the natives and indigenous fauna of the land had yet to rise. The young togruta rested a hand on her mount and looked around her at the small village she’d just rode into. It was not dissimilar to the last one: huts formed from sand and dirt, clearly forgotten even by the other inhabitants of this planet, drowsy -- a water-farming village if she ever saw one. It took no time for her to pick out the cantina: one of the main structures in the centre of the village -- right where it should be, the centre of the farmer’s lives. The togruta smiled with confident anticipation and, tying her mount to the hitching post outside, strolled into the cantina, kicking up more dust as she went. 

Inside the cantina was just as sleepy as the town outside: half the tables were empty so early in the morning, and those that weren’t had become beds for the patrons who’d finally passed out at the first rays of dawn and now snored heavily, hands still wrapped around half-empty glasses. Only one table boasted fully awake customers: a zabrak with burnt-orange coloured skin and dark brown hair spiked up as if to match her horns sitting as if ready for action beside a human dressed all in crimson and brown leather and a fabulous black, rimmed hat--perfect for blocking out the Tatooine suns--that covered what looked like a mess of crimson red hair. The togruta noticed that the whispers they had been sharing ceased abruptly upon her entrance, and both parties stared each other down as the togruta advanced towards the bar with no less confidence and swagger as when she had originally entered.

She leaned on the bar casually and waved at the bartender to bring her a drink. He set the glass down on the bar and waited for his credits, observing her with a gaze both suspicious and curious--a look the togruta had become used to from people in these towns. Taking her drink, she turned to find the zabrak and the human had come up behind her and blocked her path, arms crossed. A slow smile spread across her face; so, she  _ would _ be entertained until that evening after all! “How rude of me; if I’d known this was going to be a party I’d’ve bought a round for everyone,” she drawled, taking an unconcerned sip of her drink. It burned on her tongue and down her throat: bracing, jarring--just what she needed first thing in the morning. 

“I doubt you could afford to,” the zabrak said, deadpan, a menacing frown on her face.

_ Oh, she’s so serious… This should be fun,  _ the togruta thought. She loved the serious ones. They were so much more fun to play with. “Well, now, you can’t say something like that without knowing a person, and, darlin’, I would certainly remember knowing you,” she responded with a coy wink.

The zabrak seemed to visibly bristle. “I can know you without you knowing me,” she snapped. “I know all about you.”

The togruta made a show of pouting thoughtfully as she took another sip of her drink. “What a shame. My way is much more pleasant for both parties. Shall I prove it?” 

“Enough!” The man said. As he did, his hand moved to his blaster with quick, practiced ease. The togruta noticed the movement and drew her own blaster without disturbing her drink. The two stood, staring down the barrels of their blasters, scowling. 

Behind the bar, the bartender had shouted in alarm and ducked for cover while the rest of the snoring patrons carried on snoring through the racket. A face-off like this must not be uncommon in a place such as this. 

“Who are you?” the togruta asked. Playtime was over; the game had begun. 

“Friends of a friend,” the man responded vaguely. 

“Which friend?”

“You don’t happen to remember the Black Sun, by any chance, do you?” 

The togruta scowled in disgust. “They have a lot of friends. Sure I’m the one you want?”

“Positive… Haddij.”

She tightened her finger over the trigger. “Well, I’ll give ‘em this much: at least an escaped slave becomes a person to them,” she spat, glaring from one thug to the next.

“You’re not just an escaped slave, though, are you? Else we wouldn’t have been sent after you,” the zabrak said. She still had not drawn her gun, but she approached menacingly with her arms crossed. 

Haddij forced herself not to reach for her hidden second blaster--not yet. She said nothing, only smiled smugly, taunting the both of them. Oh, she knew well why Black Sun was after her; had expected it, even. After all, you don’t escape from a slave pen with a list of the gang’s slave ring’s major holding locations to sell to the Republic and get off scot free--especially not if the Republic busted the slaving operation enough to hurt.  _ So my plan worked and slaves were freed _ , she thought with a thrill of satisfaction. “Well,” she finally said, lowering her gun slightly for show and setting her drink casually on the bar, “it was nice of them to send y’all to check up on me. As you can see, I’m doin’ just well, which I’m sure our  _ friends _ will be most anxious to hear.”

“We’re not finished here,” the man said in a low, threatening voice.

“Oh, I rather think we are,” Haddij responded. Before she had finished speaking she drew her second blaster from inside her leather vest and shot each of her opponents in the hand before they could fire, and then again in the knees. They stumbled and fell to the ground, grunting in pain, and Haddij kicked their blasters away, holstering her own and picking her drink back up. She stopped, standing over the man, and, without saying a thing, plucked his hat from his head and placed it on her own, adjusting her montrals to fit, then proceeded back to the door with a confident, swinging walk, sipping her drink like nothing had happened. 

Night took a long time to fall, but by the time it had, Haddij had seen neither hair nor hide of the bounty hunters the Black Sun had sent her way, and she was more than happy to think that she’d given the bosses over on Coruscant a warning as to who they were up against. She was at complete liberty to enjoy her evening, and enjoy it she intended to. On the outskirts of the town a rowdy crowd surrounded a corral which was as yet empty. The crowd was composed of townsfolk, moisture farmers who lived and worked nearby, and the occasional outsider come specifically for the event. Lingering just on the fringes of the crowd were vendors with mobile carts advertising their goods--mostly food and drink, though a couple of equipment vendors had shown up as well. Haddij sauntered up to the nearest drink vendor and ordered a strong, vibrant green liquor. While she waited for the vendor to pour it she asked, “What’re the stakes tonight?”

“Regional champion is in the house. Locals think they can take ‘em, but ain’t nobody between here and Anchorhead ever got the best of ‘em,” the vendor replied, shaking his head in awe.

“Is that so…?” Haddij hummed thoughtfully. “Which one is he?”

The vendor looked up and peered about the crowd. “Can’t see ‘em… But you’ll know ‘em; wears huge boots and has a silver face, ‘e does.”

Haddij paid for her drink and tipped her hat at the vendor, moving slowly through the crowd. No one paid her any mind, and why should they? No one here knew her. She kept her eye out for the fabled champion, but when she didn’t catch sight of him before catching sight of another drink vendor, she downed her drink in a single pull and went to order another. 

“You here to watch or to ride?” The vendor asked, looking up from the drink preparation through her long lashes. 

Haddij noted that she had very pretty hazel eyes. With a coy smile she said, “What’d’you think?”

The vendor pouted in thought for a moment and then said, “You’re a rider, I can tell.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Riders got a way about ‘em,” the vendor said, handing over the drink with a small, teasing grin.

“Well, you certainly don’t make that seem like a bad thing,” Haddij said, taking her drink and leaning on the cart with an expectant smile. 

A gong rang suddenly and the metallic echo of an announcer testing the sound system vibrated across the deserted rocky expanse of the surrounding landscape. “Looks like you’d better go get yourself on the lists,” the vendor said with a final grin before turning to the next customer.

Haddij pushed her way through the crowd to the announcer’s booth where other riders--the vendor was right, they  _ did _ all have a way about them--waited in a clump to add themselves to the list of contestants. Meanwhile the announcer had begun opening the event.

“...And tonight we have a real show for you, folks, ‘cause the very legend himself, Niet ed-Seyor, will be competing!” 

Some in the crowd cheered ecstatically while others jeered. It appeared to Haddij that this Niet ed-Seyor must have already enrolled himself in the lists, since she saw none matching his description in the little group. She frowned and took a gulp of her drink.

“Hey, you! Riders ain’t s’posed to be drinkin’!” Shouted one of the grimy toydarians manning the lists.

Haddij looked around and then pointed at herself in mock surprise, then promptly downed the rest of her drink and tossed the glass aside. She lifted her hands in the air in a show of innocence. The toydarian glowered at her but said nothing more as she typed her name into the datapad and strolled off to the far end of the corral where the other contestants had gathered. There was a slight dizziness to the world around her and she thought,  _ Well, yeah, that’s what you get for chugging two of those drinks _ . Undaunted, however, she climbed the metal railing of the corral and perched herself on the top rail to watch as the events began. 

“And our first rider in the ring is local hotshot Gaillac!” The announcer boomed over the roaring cheer of the crowd. “He’s impressed us all with his almost flawless streak this season, and certainly his impressive win at the Life Day festival. Looks like they’ve got him mounted on … ouh! Lucky Shot! Let’s see if he can live up to expectations with that fireball of a dewback--and  _ they’re out! _ ”

From a pen nearby where Haddij and the other riders watched a dewback streaked out into the corral and then slammed to a halt, immediately twisting its body to one side, then the other. Haddij watched, calculating but not enraptured, as the rider, Galliac, managed to cling to the creature’s back. His skill was average, but nothing special; it kept him on, but he didn’t look pretty doing it. The 8 second timer buzzed and wrangler droids rolled into the corral with taser sticks to mollify the beast and extract the rider. 

“If that’s the local hotshot, this competition isn’t going to be very interesting,” a low, husky voice said off to Haddij’s right.

She glanced over and widened her eyes with surprise when she took in the man standing next to her.  _ Niet ed-Seyor, it has to be _ , she thought. The lower part of his jaw and the left half of his face were almost entirely covered in cybernetic implants. A quick glance down at his feet confirmed: his boots were huge--bulky and tall.  _ A silver face, indeed. I wonder what else is silver? Wonder if that’s how he does so well _ , the togruta thought, her brows furrowing slightly. 

“Lemme guess, you’re tryna figure out where you know me from?” Niet said with a cocky grin, pushing back his just so with his finger, the better to reveal his features.

“I have never seen you before in my life,” Haddij answered curtly. “I was just thinking the same as you, though.”

Neit’s smug smile soured into a frown and he pulled his hat back down. “Is that so? And who do you think you are, then?”

Haddij smiled, amused by his fragility. “Obviously not as big a name as  _ you  _ are,” she answered enigmatically. “Yet.”

The crowd boomed with cheers as the next rider burst into the corral and almost immediately flew headlong into the rails. Medical droids rushed to recuperate him while the riders still waiting their turn shifted anxiously. 

Five other riders went and fell spectacularly before Haddij was called. She tipped her hat impetuously to Niet before swinging her legs back over the rails and dropping neatly in the sand, sauntering off with the wrangler droid. 

“You have to draw your mount,” the droid explained, lifting up a finger smartly. “Here.” It handed Haddij a cube with 12 sides marked with symbols in local dialect. She tossed the cube. “Hmm,” the droid said upon reading the cube, and then beckoned Haddij to follow. 

Several other wrangler droids had ushered the beast into a small pen connected to the corral and were struggling to ensure that the straps holding the saddle in place were sufficiently tight while the creature itself shifted and snapped at them. 

“And coming up next we have a rookie who’s really been making a name for herself in the ring this year. Haddij Leroyne has won every competition in the seven towns she’s travelled to this season; if she wins here, she could be headed to the finals at Mos Ila next, folks!” 

Haddij smirked as she listened to the praise heaped upon her by the announcer.  _ Regional Champion, hah! I’ve definitely got you beat, bin-head, _ she thought with a swell of pride. 

“But this ride won’t be easy for her…” The announcer continued. “Looks like she’s drawn our most savage dewback--caught yesterday and never yet mounted!”

Haddij climbed up the rails of the pen and looked down at the beast which snapped meanly at the droids around it. “Never yet mounted, eh? Well, it’s your lucky day,” she said, dropping onto the creature’s back. It gave a restrained buck of discomfort, but the droids held it well enough in place while Haddij got a good grip on the pommel of the saddle and adjusted herself in her seat. 

“Let’s see just what this rookie will make of Quickdraw!” 

Time seemed to slow down when Haddij nodded at the droids and they released the spring holding the gate of the pen closed. All of her senses flared to life and her instincts took over control of her body; through her thighs she felt the shifting balance and contracting muscles of the beast and her hips followed its movements, trailing her torso along in its wake. Perfectly balanced. Every move the beast made she made with it. She was not pulled along like a weight, but carried along like a companion in an improvised dance. She could feel the power of her muscles holding her against the creature, could feel the grace of her body poised balanced atop her mount. Somewhere far in the distance the timer buzzed and consciousness flooded back in a rush. Haddij did not wait for the wrangler droids to come taze the beast and lift her off; rather she used the beast’s movement to propel herself off it’s back and she landed with practiced ease on her own two feet in the thick brown dirt of the corral. 

The crowd’s cheers hit her like a wall and she lifted her hat to them in victorious acknowledgement of their praise. Walking back to rejoin the other riders, she shot a look and a smug smile at Niet, who looked angry and surprised.  _ Just what I thought. _

“That was a near perfect run from the rookie! Incredible! Quickdraw certainly couldn’t get the best of her. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a ride so thrilling in years!”

Haddij climbed back up onto the rail and took up her erstwhile perch, beaming with pride as the riders around her clapped her on the back and expressed their admiration. “What can I say? It just comes naturally,” she responded to them.


	3. Shakiru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shakiru runs away from responsibility and subsequently makes a questionable life decision.

_N-420 X-wing - Early 10 ATC_

“Coming back here was a stupid idea,” Shakiru said. They had chosen a round-about flight path to approach the Black Sun flagship that would keep them out of detection range for the longest amount of time. It had been Shakiru’s idea. 

“What else are we supposed to have done?” Mechthil snapped, refusing to look at Shakiru.

“Uh, finish the mission?”

“That slave got the better of us  _ unprepared _ . You almost lost a leg. We need to regroup, rethink.”

“We could have done that a long way from here.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Look, I get you’re fresh out of Mandalore or whatever and you’ve never worked a job for a crime syndicate before, but I’ve hung around with the Black Sun long enough to know that coming back here means admitting defeat--and they won’t take that lightly,” Shakiru said, speaking slowly to make sure she understood.

“Admitting defeat means admitting defeat,” Mechthil insisted.

Shakiru banged his hand on the control panel. “You really don’t get it, do you? You think everyone in the galaxy acts with your ridiculous Mandalorian honour? You’re a fool, and you will die. If you want to do something smart, you’ll listen to me and turn this ship around before they see us.”

That, at least, shocked Mechthil into slowing the borrowed starship to a stop. 

“You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. We aren’t high profile bounty hunters; we’re a couple of kids the bosses hired to take care of an annoying mishap. I don’t want to die over something so meaningless,” Shakiru snapped, running his hands through his long, unruly crimson hair.

Mechthil said nothing for a moment. “They would really kill us for coming back empty handed, even if we intended to continue the hunt?”

“You betcha,” Shakiru answered firmly. His tone was unmistakably certain, but his expression invited no questions. “So get us out of here. Because if you don’t--” he stood up, “--I won’t face them with you.” He turned and stalked off the bridge to the living quarters he’d taken up. Since they had brought very little with them--expecting the job to be easy money--the place was nearly spotless; didn’t look like a space he’d inhabited for just over a week at all. Didn’t look inhabited, for that matter. Shakiru threw himself onto the bed and ran his hands through his hair again, ruffing it up and then rubbing his face too. Closing his eyes, he ran his hands over the cybernetic implant stuck above his left eye where his eyebrow should be. Some days, he barely even noticed it anymore--the extra aid to his optical receptors was just as normal as the unenhanced vision he enjoyed in his right eye. But when he remembered that it was there--and remembered  _ why _ it was there--he still wanted to rip it out; still considered its presence an affront to his person. 

With a grunt, Shakiru sat quickly up and busied himself with cleaning the blasters he’d brought with him. Thinking about the past never led to anything good, always made him angry, and at the moment he didn’t have anyone to take that anger out on but himself or that stoic zabrak who had still not turned the ship around. He shook his head. It was no wonder the Mandalorians had to be such legendary warriors: their strict sense of honour must get them into all kinds of unpleasant situations. If they couldn’t fight their way out, they would not have prospered.

The familiar click of metal against metal as he disassembled his blaster with practiced ease soothed him and he focused on the mundane task. This was something he had known how to do since he was just a boy; his uncle--who may or may not have been related by blood, Shakiru never found out the truth--had insisted that he learn how to properly care for the tools which would one day save his life and make his fortune. “You take care of this, you take care of yourself,” he’d always used to say. 

The red sheen of thermodynamic energy that the optical enhancement detected always seemed to grow more vibrant whenever Shakiru thought about his uncle. Blast! how he hated the thing sometimes.  _ If I’d had the damn implant  _ then… he thought with regret. But he hadn’t. The implant was a consequence of what had happened then: a hateful reminder of his greatest regret.

Shakiru slammed the pieces of his blaster back together, disgusted with himself, and made to get up and find out what was taking that damn Mandalorian so long to make up her mind. But just as he was halfway to his feet the ship suddenly lurched into a backwards arc--she was taking them away.  _ Good _ , Shakiru thought. 

“Happy?” Came Mechthil’s call from the bridge.

Shakiru went to join her. They had decisions to make. 

“I don’t like running away. We should have gone back and faced our death with honour,” Mechthil said, though she held the ship on a steady course. 

“There would have been no honour in that death and you know it,” Shakiru countered. “We have a choice now.”

“And what’s that?”

“We go back after that slave girl.”

“Or?”

“We take the opportunity to free ourselves from the Black Sun.”

“You mean really run away?”

“I mean disappear and start over. Have a chance at life.”

Mechthil scoffed. “Right, and just where are we going to go? I can’t go back to Mandalore; my clan will never accept me after this act of cowardice. And you were with the Black Sun before me--what else do you have?”

Shakiru’s hands curled over the back of the co-pilot’s chair, clenching until they turned white. But he said nothing, his expression remained stony and neutral.  _ What else do I have, indeed?  _

“What’s the nearest system?”

“There are a couple… looks like we’re right on the edge of Hutt Space and Imperial space.” Mechthil pointed to the map which indicated two systems, one on either side of the border.

“Our best bet will be to get out of Hutt Space; put all the gangsters behind us.”

“And what do you expect awaits us in the Empire if not slavery? I’m an alien and you come from nothing! I’d rather take my chances with the Hutts, thanks.”

“We are warriors, I’m certain we could find our way amongst the Imperials; from what I hear they’re always warring one another in the Empire,” Shakiru answered firmly. “But some of the hutts have stakes in Black Sun business. If we run into the wrong people, we will be caught and we’ll be as good as dead again. I don’t fancy spending my whole life running or hiding on account of the Black Sun.”

“We won’t have to run and hide if we get in with someone bigger and stronger than the Black Sun,” Mechthil reasoned, crossing her arms.

“Right, so to avoid death you’d rather raise the stakes and gamble with your life again?” Shakiru asked, shaking his head. His uncle would have slapped the girl by now for her hard-headed foolishness. “Do you have any sense of self preservation?”

“Actually, yes. And that’s why I’d rather ‘raise the stakes and gamble with my life’, as you put it, amongst the hutts rather than with the Empire. I assume you’ve heard the stories of the Empire’s cruelty? Surely the whole galaxy has?”

“What, were you born into the Republic or something?” Shakiru scoffed. In truth, he had heard of the Empire’s cruelty. Had heard about the dangerous power of the Sith and their disregard for non-Force users. Had heard of the constant in-fighting not only amongst the Sith but amongst Imperial subjects too. But to his mind, they couldn’t honestly be worse than the major gangs and crime syndicates that owned the Underworld and ran out of Hutt space. In fact, he reasoned that they had to at least have  _ some  _ rules, something more to keep them in check--in comparison to the gangs.

“Look, if you’ve got your heart set on the Empire, I’ll take you to that system and drop you at the first space port, but I won’t be sticking around. So you’ve got to decide: are we in this together or not?”

Shakiru was taken aback. He had rather expected them to bicker for another several minutes before she finally conceded to his point of view, as she had done for the duration of their partnership so far. But it seemed her mind was well and truly made up to remain in Hutt space.  _ Is this… disappointment?  _ He barely knew the girl. And yet indeed, he felt disappointed that they should be separating so soon.  _ Well, had to happen sometime I suppose. Not like we were really partners, after all,  _ he told himself firmly, though it didn’t really help. “Then I guess we’re not.” Suddenly he couldn’t stay on the bridge anymore and abruptly stalked off, back to his room to pack… nothing. He stood uselessly in the doorway for a moment, then paced up and down the central bay of the shuttle, where cargo was normally stored, frustrated. 

It was impossible to say, really, what he found so frustrating--largely because he was not being completely honest with himself. He would not allow himself to consider the possibility that what disturbed him most was not, in fact, her decision to remain in Hutt space, but rather his own decision not to do so. To admit as much would be to admit that he was more afraid of dying uselessly at the hands of greedy gangsters just like his uncle than he was afraid of finding himself alone and quite lost on a foreign planet. And to admit to that would open the door for him to admit something even more unwelcome: a deep fear of growing used to and coming to depend upon and even care for a new partner who he could well lose, again, at the hands of gangsters. But none of this he could admit to himself, could not even acknowledge the doors that might lead to these thoughts. So instead he paced up and down the cargo bay of the shuttle, cursing the Mandalorian for her stupidity. 

It did not take long to reach the Imperial occupied system, and they soon obtained permission to dock at the space port that hovered above the central planet. As soon as the rumble of the engines cut out Mechthil emerged from the bridge and stood at the far end of the cargo bay facing Shakiru with her arms crossed. “I’m not setting foot on this station; I don’t want to stay here for longer than I need to,” she announced.

“So this is it then?”

“I guess so.”

Shakiru nodded, still rather more angry at her than he could account for. “Well. It was a good run.”

“I wouldn’t call it that. We spent all our credits patching up our wounds, we didn’t neutralise the target,  _ and _ you had your hat stolen,” Mechthil answered bluntly. “And now we are fugitives, fleeing responsibility for our failure. There was no honour in this.”

Shakiru winced. When she put it like that, he could understand why she wouldn’t want to stay with him.  _ It’s for the best this way,  _ he told himself, though it did not help the anger. “Right. Well, I hope you find a way to regain your honour, then, Mandalorian.”

“And I hope you find a way to stay alive and free, Mercenary,” Mechthil replied. 

There was no more to be said. No more to be done. Shakiru just nodded his head and then abruptly stalked to the docking ramp to exit the shuttle. He did not look back. Before he even reached the elevator at the end of the docking bay which would carry him to the space port lobby he heard the shuttle engines fire up again.  _ She really meant that she wasn’t going to stick around _ , he thought bitterly.

The space port lobby was not overcrowded or particularly peopled at all; clearly this planet was some backwater dump that the Empire didn’t waste much time or resources over. Still, there were a few merchants scattered here and there, selling their wares to the few travellers. Shakiru noticed a number of unsavoury-looking figures lurking about in the crowd, and figured that this close to Hutt space there were bound to be sleemos and spice-traders about. He wandered around aimlessly, wondering how he should go about trying to get a pass for the shuttle down to the planet--wondering  _ where _ , even, to obtain such a thing, for it was not obvious--and observed the station. He’d never been to Imperial space before, indeed, had never really left Hutt space in all his 22 years, for that was where his jobs had always been. No bigger opportunity had come along, and he’d never managed to make a name for himself as a mercenary--not enough to send him off to other parts of the galaxy, or to pay enough that he could get out and start a new life elsewhere. The sharp lines of the decor, the black tones of the transparisteel support and the dark crimson silk banners were new and impressive. Everything looked sharp, new, ordered; the very architecture itself proclaimed a structured hierarchy to existence that left no room for strays. After a while, Shakiru began to feel intimidated by that feeling, and very aware of his outsider status. What had he been thinking? Surely there was no place for him, a stray, in this Empire.

He found a corner of the lobby near a potted plant--local flora, he assumed--and sat down, exhausted and worried. He still hadn’t even managed to find where shuttle passes could be bought; how was he ever to figure out how to fit himself into this strange world he’d dumped himself into? Despairing, he listened to the merchants calling their wares. Stims, local minerals and metals, food, the Imperial Navy-- _ the Imperial Navy?  _ Shakiru’s head snapped up and he looked around for the source of that voice. It was not hard to spot: a severe-looking middle-aged man with a handle-bar moustache and dressed in a crisp dark grey uniform positioned behind a foldable table with a datapad on it. A small crowd of young men--some looking more rugged than others--had gathered around him. A couple of troopers in shining black and dark grey armour stood behind the officer.

“Loyalty. Duty. Honor. The Imperial Navy secures our Empire’s dominance across the far corners of the galaxy. Report to recruitment staff for more information!” The officer shouted. 

Shakiru almost laughed. The officer sounded like Mechthil. He wasn’t so sure about the loyalty or the duty part, and certainly cared little for securing the Empire’s dominance, but it  _ could _ be the door he needed to step into the Empire.  _ Besides which, I could do with some formal combat training; uncle would like that. Maybe someday I could really make a name for myself if I actually honed my skills _ , he thought. In any case, it was probably his only option for not dying of starvation on that space port.

Without letting himself think too much more, Shakiru got up and promptly joined the group of young men whose information the officer had begun entering into the datapad. When it came his turn the officer gave him a look over and grunted. “Name?”

“Shakiru.”

“Full name?”

Shakiru opened his mouth to explain that that  _ was _ his full name, but hesitated. Was it worth it to explain his whole life story? Wouldn’t it be easier just to make something up? “Shakiru Valeans.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Male…” The officer muttered, tapping more on the pad. “Have you ever flown before?”

“Lots of times.”

“Hm… That remains to be seen.”

“Then why did you ask?” Shakiru said, incredulous.

“Do not question your superiors, boy!” The officer snapped. “Rule number one, if you want to get anywhere in the Navy.”

Shakiru almost made a snarky remark back to that, but satisfied himself with a dissatisfied grunt; wouldn’t do him any good to get off to a rocky start--even if he did expect to break Rule Number One frequently. 

“Report to shuttle bay 4 to join your regiment.”

“That’s it?”

“Move  _ along _ , recruit,” the officer said with a deadly glare. 

Shakiru held up his hands and stepped away from the table.  _ This is going to be something _ , he thought. 

Shuttle bay 4 was nearby and easy to find. A small group of recruits was already gathered nearby the large Imperial shuttle that stood in the centre of the hangar. Shakiru joined them. A few were speaking together, but most were silent. Some looked frightened out of their wits, others looked indecently giddy. It was almost impossible to ignore, however, nearly all of the recruits were humans, even though a good fraction of the group in front of the recruitment officer had been aliens.  _ I guess that rumour is true,  _ he thought. The lone alien in the group stood apart from the others and looked neither scared nor giddy, but thoughtful. He was a rattataki, his face covered in piercings and with tattoos that made his ice blue eyes look like they were sunk into deep eye sockets. Shakiru couldn’t quite tell why, but he felt very strongly that this man was not to be crossed.

The rattataki noticed Shakiru staring and fixed the cyborg with his sharp gaze. 

Shakiru, not knowing what else to do, nodded and approached. “What convinced you to join: loyalty, honour, or duty?”

“Ambition,” the rattataki replied. He had a deep voice and a thick Imperial accent. “Yourself?”

Shakiru chuckled appreciatively. “Desperation,” he answered, inspired by his interlocutor’s candidness. “I’m Shakiru.”

“Marttirs.”

“Listen up you lot!” A broad-shouldered Imperial officer marched into the hangar. “Once you get on this shuttle there’s no going back. Expect to be broken. Anyone who isn’t up to the task, get out of here now.” He paused for the briefest moment. No one moved. “Very well. Next stop: Hell.”

“He means Dromund Kaas,” Marttirs added in a low voice before joining the queue. 


	4. Ait'nelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadet Ait'nelis of the Republic Army is the best in her class and almost everyone (including her superiors) know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a LONG time coming. Had it typed up forever, but needed serious editing.

_ Coruscant - Early 10 ATC _

Her ears were ringing. Strangely, seeing felt harder for lack of hearing.  _ Get up. Get back up!  _ Her brain couldn’t piece together what else was happening, but that thought alone drove her to push her aching muscles to respond, to lift her off the cold metal floor. Slowly the world came back to her, first through her eyes then through her ears. 

“Nel! Nel, we gotta go!” Came a faint fuzzy voice as a figure before her gesticulated wildly. 

_ Eni _ . The dark-skinned male shimmered into focus.

She kept her attention fixed on him, using him as a guide after which to throw her energy. They sprinted. Her breath came loud and heavy, echoing in her head as though her lungs had migrated to where her brain should be. She clung to a heavy blaster cannon like her life depended on it--it probably did. Blaster shots rained around their heads. Her life certainly depended on it. Eni dropped behind a stack of cargo for cover and she followed suit, leaning her head back on the metal containers in exhaustion and gazing up at the steel dome above. 

“You with me, Nel?” 

She tilted her head back down and looked at Eni. He was completely in focus now. The bangs and blasts had gone from a painful clanging that vibrated in her very marrow back to a piercing external cacophony again. “I’m with you. How many of our men did the blast take out?” Even her voice sounded oddly distant, detached.

“Everyone except us.”

She wanted to exclaim that that was over half the squad, but such a painfully obvious observation would serve no purpose. “And they’re only down one.”

“And they know our position.”

“So what are our options?”

“Charge ‘em? At least if we don’t succeed we’ve gone down shooting. That’s as honourable as it gets.”

“Winning against all odds is more honourable…” She returned, tapping her blaster cannon thoughtfully.

“What’s your idea, then?”

“If they didn’t know our position, we could surprise them; take their numbers down to match ours. We’d have a fighting chance.”

“But they  _ do _ know our position.”

A round of automatic blasts slammed into the cargo behind which they had hid and caused the crates to vibrate dangerously.  _ We don’t have much time _ , she thought, casting her gaze around. They were not far from the enemy ship now, as attested by all the cargo packed closely in the area. It was an impediment to a headlong charge to the ship, which Eni--and the opposition--clearly considered to be their only hope for victory. She wasn’t convinced that charging would be easy or fast on that terrain. But what if they could use all the obstacles to their advantage? 

“I have an idea.”

“I thought you might.”

“Only one of us needs to be able to move unnoticed all the way to the ship; the other will stay here and rain as much blaster fire on the opposition as possible--enough to make them think we are both here, standing our ground to the last.”

“ _ That’s _ your plan?”

“It’s better than yours and you know it,” she answered, bracing herself against the trembling cargo as it withstood a second round of automatic blaster fire.

“You’re a madwoman, you know that, Nel?”

“I’ll stay and hold their attention. You go.”

“But--”

“No time to argue. Don’t be seen, or this whole thing is bust, got it? Go!” And with that, she lifted herself and started shooting wildly in the direction whence came the enemy blaster fire. Having loosed half of her battery, she dropped down just in time to avoid return fire. Shifting over, she unclipped her hand gun and stuck its nose out the other side of the cover to shoot back at the opposition. Accuracy wasn’t necessary; eliminating the enemy was not a primary objective. All she had to do was keep their attention occupied until Eni reached the ship, then it would all be over. They stopped firing, and she took the opportunity to raise herself. Fleetingly, she saw one of her opponents ducking for cover and sent a fiery cannon blast sailing over the cover. A shout.  _ One down _ , she thought with pleasure, ducking again just before yet another volley of shots rained down on her cover.  _ They’re either getting closer or the containers are getting weaker,  _ she thought.  _ Or both. Come on, Eni, hurry up…  _

The next time she raised her head to shoot at the enemy, she could see how close they had moved to her position. Within minutes she would be caught and Eni’s cover blown. He would be all on his own. But, their proximity and boldness as they closed in on her opened up an advantage: they were much easier targets. The opposing sides exchanged round after round of volleys, Nel doing her best to make them believe that she was not alone; the ruse seemed to have worked, for all four of them were concentrated on her. Suddenly, a shadow loomed down across Nel: one of her opponents had climbed over her cargo cover. He had a shocked look on his face, and she could practically see his mind working to comprehend. As realisation dawned on his face and he opened his mouth to warn his squad, Nel shot him in the chest and he toppled down off the crates and fell with a dull thud at her feet. “Shit, Eni, get a move on,” she muttered, sending another volley out.

Suddenly an alarm went off and the shooting stopped. Nel stared at the metal dome overhead, stunned, relieved. The soldier at Nel’s feet shifted and sat up. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, giving Nel an approving nod. 

She stood, feeling as though her whole body was still vibrating from the impact of bullets against her cover, and climbed up the pile of cargo. Sure enough, Eni stood on top of the starship waving a bright blue Republic flag jubilantly. 

“Congratulations, cadets; you prevailed in this exercise against all odds and graduated boot-camp--with honours. You have a week of shore leave before we reassign you to your new regiments, so make the most of it. You’ve earned a little vacation… privates.” The lieutenant saluted the five newly-made privates before him who saluted back, their new rank insignia gleaming on their formal uniforms. “Dismissed.”

They turned to leave the office, breaking out instantly into excited chatter congratulating each other on their achievement. Before they could get far, the lieutenant said, “Private Ait’nelis Cornuail, could you stay behind please?”

Nel exchanged a confused glance with Eni before turning back to the lieutenant, who waited until all the others had left and the door closed behind them to begin speaking.

“Private. Private Eni tells me that your squad’s success in that simulation was thanks entirely to you,” the lieutenant said.

“I cannot take all the credit, sir. My fellow squad members acquitted themselves admirably, and I could have never succeeded without Private Eni,” Ait’nelis replied, embarrassed that Eni should heap such undeserved praise upon her. 

“And yet it was your plan which led your team to victory.”

“I was just doing my duty, sir.”

The lieutenant smiled approvingly. “Private, it’s soldiers like you who can make or break a battle. You have the determination, stubbornness, loyalty, and honour that make a true soldier. You may not know this, but your kind’s a rarity. People like you have a higher calling, need to be pushed to greater lengths,” he said.

Ait’nelis frowned, uncertain where this was going. Was she being kicked out? Had she done something wrong? Though nothing he said sounded like chastisement, a cold, sheer panic gripped her at the thought that he might ‘suggest’ reassignment out of the military. Taking a steadying breath to calm the panic, she began steeling herself mentally to argue against whatever the lieutenant had in mind; she would remain in the army no matter what he thought her ‘higher calling’ might be. There was nothing else she wanted to do; no better way she could think of to defend her Republic. 

“Following review of the simulation, my superiors have decided to offer you the chance to train for one of the most elite SpecForce teams in the Republic military: Havoc Squad. Should you agree--and you would be a fool not to--you will be shipped out tonight to join a SpecForce training regiment that will ensure you have all the necessary extra skills to join the squad--or crush you if we were wrong about your abilities.”

Ait’nelis was taken aback; that was certainly the opposite of what she’d expected to hear. She had always intended to aim for deployment in SpecForce someday, but had assumed that she’d be forced to prove her mettle as a common soldier first just to earn a spot in the training programme. To have it handed to her so suddenly, and when she thought she was about to be reassigned to tactical... “You’re serious, sir?” It was impossible to keep the note of surprised excitement out of her question.

The lieutenant chuckled. “You won’t be so happy about this in a couple weeks, I can promise you,” he warned.

“It would be an honour, sir,” she insisted, perhaps too emphatically than appropriate decor allowed. But the lieutenant did not seem to mind. 

“Very well. I’ll alert the commander who oversees training and arrange your transport. Be at the military hangar in the spaceport in five hours. And, private? Well done.”

“It was an honour to train with you, Lieutenant,” Ait’nelis said. She offered him a salute and left his office, still reeling. Five hours. Five hours and she’d be on her way to achieving a feat she’d dreamed of achieving since before she’d joined the Republic army nearly a year previously. Though it had not been a life-long dream of hers the way it had been for some of her fellow cadets, she had nonetheless grown severely impassioned with the idea three years prior and had worked as hard for it as if it had been her only desire from infancy. While some of the other cadets had mocked her for her zeal, especially given her background and lack of family resources and connections, they could not have deterred her. After all, she often considered that she had a better reason and therefore a greater will to fight than many of the boys and girls who came from wealthy or well-off Republic families, or career military families. One does not watch Imperial troopers invade and slaughter or enslave one’s family and closest friends without wanting revenge. One does not regard one’s saviours--Republic SpecForce--with anything less than the deepest respect, gratitude, and obligation.

When she reached the bunkers she took a deep breath--time to prepare herself before walking in. There would be questions; and likely there will already have been speculation. But some of them certainly would not be happy to learn her news. Steadied, she pressed the button on the access terminal and the doors slid open with a hiss. The four other members of her squad were sprawled out across the room talking and laughing; already in vacation mode. When she entered they stopped talking and gave her their full attention immediately.

“So, what did the lieutenant want?” Eni asked, waving Ait’nelis over to sit beside him on his cot. 

“Bet he wanted to warn her not to get her hopes too high for a good posting, but the good lieutenant wanted to give her the decency of a private let down,” sneered Naggel Raw, a fifth generation military brat with, Ait’nelis thought, serious entitlement issues.

Naggel Raw’s closest friend, Aelswyth, a bulky mirialan and senator’s son, chuckled appreciatively at the jibe. 

Ait’nelis just raised her eyebrow disapprovingly at them. “You  _ are _ right that he wanted to personally give me my assignment,” she said, pausing ever so slightly before the big reveal. “I’ve been selected to train for SpecForce. I leave tonight.”

“What? Nel, that’s incredible!” Eni exclaimed, his sentiments of surprise and approval echoed by the twi’lek girl Zara. He reached over and tackled Ait’nelis in a bear hug.

“Surely this is a joke?” Naggel Raw exclaimed. “I mean, I’m  _ on track _ for a SpecForce position, and my father assures me that I’m advancing at the fastest possible pace. There’s no way that this …  _ upstart _ is getting there faster than me!” 

“Can’t you be happy for anyone, Raw? Or maybe open your mind far enough to consider that Nel shows exceptional skill that none of the rest of us can hope to match without several years’ experience in the field?” Eni snapped, all but stepping in front of Ait’nelis protectively--even though she’d told him a million times not to.

“Without her, there’s no way we would have passed that simulation after the other cadets set off those munitions charges,” Zara pointed out. 

“You’re not seriously suggesting that this backwater nerf-herder possesses greater skill after a year of playing soldier than me: a born and bred soldier who knew how to shoot a blaster before I could walk?” Naggel Raw’s fury was palpable. His pride, Ait’nelis had always thought, would be his undoing. Someday. He rounded on Ait’nelis again. “ _ You _ can’t really think that you’re that much better than us.”

“I don’t think I’m better than anyone, but our superiors do,” Ait’nelis said, resisting the urge to give Naggel Raw a smug smirk. All year long that puffed-up colonel’s son had undermined her suggestions, insulted her homeland and her species, and sabotaged her training at every opportunity. She had never retaliated, merely ignored and avoided. He had made it abundantly clear that, under no uncertain terms, as a colonel’s son he could pull strings to get her kicked out of bootcamp if she did anything to upset him. But more than fear for her future, what drove Ait’nelis to maintain a passive peace towards Naggel Raw was the fact that he was her squad-mate and that meant that they needed to be able to work together. Infighting amongst the ranks was a sure way to defeat, and Ait’nelis refused to jeopardise her team and their goals for a petty squabble she hadn’t even picked. But now their squad had been disbanded. They were to be reassigned and she was on her way to a more prestigious squad than Naggel Raw because his connections paled in comparison to her dedication; she didn’t have to take his insults lying down anymore. “As much as I’d love to sit around and try to prove to you that I am and always have been a better soldier than you  _ because _ I wasn’t born into it--and I would-- I don’t feel like spending my final five hours here wasting my breath. Eni, Zara, let’s say we hit the cantinas and celebrate our graduation?” 

The others whooped in agreement and the three of them tumbled out of the barracks without a backwards glance.


	5. Nevar'ija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nevar'ija, daughter of the Roiarthur patriarch, is mentally preparing for her entrance into Sith society (to be sent off to the Sith Academy) and has a revelatory discussion with her adopted sister, Rijalu, followed by a breakdown.

_ Dromund Kaas - Early 10 ATC _

Purple lightning cracked the dark grey sky over Dromund Kaas. It seemed to shatter the mirror into which Nevar’ija stared as she made the final adjustments to her ceremonial outfit. She hated the way the harsh blue fires burning in the lamps made the lines of her face look sharper, increased the starkness of the shadows on her black and crimson gown. She hated the brightness of the lightning on the entire look even more, paling her outstanding features and thickening the shadows into deep black lines that made her bone fissures look positively monstrous. Her long blood-red hair had been curled, pinned, and shaped meticulously by the slaves into a perfectly coiffed masterpiece of Sith high fashion. A single curl hung down from the base of the updo and had been draped over the metal shoulder-piece of her costume. Nevar’ija had the sudden craving to shave all her hair off. She touched the gold jewellery embedded into her neck in an attempt to remind herself who she was; that  _ she _ was the person staring back out of the mirror.

“Oh, young mistress, please, your Lord mother will be furious if there are smudges,” moaned one of the slaves, raising a wet cloth to wipe off the gold jewellery as soon as Nevar’ija dropped her hand back down to the voluminous folds of the skirt. Part decorative armor, part haute couture, her dress was a thing of unfathomable luxury which befit her ancient blood-lines and her family’s prominence in the Empire. The person staring back at her out of the mirror was  _ the _ image of high Sith society, a flawless portrait of Sith Imperial nobility. She thought she was going to be ill. 

Someone knocked on the door. A slave hurried to open it and Nevar’ija’s mother admitted herself, entering in a swirl of black and purple silks wrapped immaculately around her battle-chiseled figure. When she saw her daughter, she as good as purred with delight. 

“Mmh, the spitting image of wealth and power,” Agath’ijl exclaimed, a rare and almost feral smile lighting her sharp, pale red features. “Are you ready to make your inferiors tremble?”

Nevar’ija swallowed and looked down at her dress. Though she had long ago mastered the skill of concealing her innermost feelings from those around her--a skill that one simply  _ had _ to possess to survive Sith society, let alone thrive within it--she worried that her feelings were too tumultuous today to remain properly hidden, least of all from her mother. “I am all anticipation,” she answered. Vague responses worked best in these situations; the other party always read whatever pleased them best into the silences, filled the empty spaces with their desire. 

“This is what you’ve trained for since you were a youngling,” Agath’ijl said, her voice all ambition. Nevar’ija wondered if her mother had divined her true meaning, or if she had responded to what she had wanted to hear. “I have something for you. From your father and I.”

Nevar’ija took the small parcel from her mother and unwrapped the velvet folds of cloth to reveal a beautifully wrought bracelet composed of the most expensive metals and stones the galaxy had to offer. The central pendant portrayed a carving of their family crest. “I… mother, this is too much,” she said, struggling to find words. Undoubtedly this was more than just a gift to celebrate her entrance into the Sith Academy; her parents, like all sith, never did anything without an ulterior motive. Her mother proved her right: 

“Don’t forget where your loyalties lie. The Force has foretold of your power, of your blazing path to glory. We know that you will distinguish yourself and our family and carry on our prestige in the Empire.” Agath’ijl rested her hands on Nevar’ija’s shoulders as though bestowing that very power and responsibility upon her daughter then and there.

Nevar’ija forced herself to smile at her mother and said with a voice which was much steadier than she felt, “So it shall be.” But inside, her heart wept with guilt for the fact that she was almost certain to disappoint. How could she remember where her loyalties lie when she wasn’t altogether sure where they had been placed to begin with? Her loyalty  _ should _ be to her family; but that was a shaky attachment at best, maintained only because Nevar’ija had no other tenable options.  _ Is that what loyalty is?  _

“I must go welcome our guests. Be sure you’re ready on time,” Agath’ijl said, withdrawing her hands and turning to leave with just as much dark splendour as when she had entered. 

A slave came over and took the bracelet from Nevar’ija’s hands to clasp it onto her wrist for her. Nevar’ija took deep, steadying breaths, willing herself to resist the urge to fling the bracelet off her hand and out the window into the wild, beast-ridden forest below--just another of Dromund Kass’ many casualties. Another knock on the door. Nevar’ija half expected it to be her mother come back, but instead her father’s ward let herself inside and closed the door behind her. Three years older than Nevar’ija, she had been working with Imperial Intelligence for over a year now--a position the Roiarthur patriarch had secured for his beloved alien ward--and wore today the crisp dark grey and black ceremonial uniform of her rank. 

“Rijalu, you came!” Nevar’ija exclaimed, hurrying to her friend and embracing her. 

“Of course! No mission could be more important than today. Besides, even Imperial Intelligence cannot refuse a personal request from one of the Empire’s most prominent families,” Rijalu answered, her voice lilting with the cadence of a chiss accent she’d never managed to eradicate--in fact, Nevar’ija had the sneaking suspicion that Rijalu had never truly tried to rid herself of the accent. “Are you ready?” 

If there was one person in all the world with whom Nevar’ija was ever completely honest, it was Rijalu. Though she had been raised in the Roiarthur household and her father had been a staunch ally to Nevar’ija’s father, Rijalu herself had never adopted the Sith mentality or their way of life; not completely. Certainly, she had learned how to manoeuvre Sith society just as well as Nevar’ija had--it was a necessary survival tactic, after all--but there was something about her that continued to set her apart from everyone else. Nevar’ija couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was a sort of warmth about Rijalu’s presence, a shimmering gold essence about her, buried deep inside, that Nevar’ija had never before come across elsewhere--at least not so concentrated; usually it was only a fleeting and quickly overpowered feeling Nevar’ija got from some people. She often wondered if anyone else sensed this about Rijalu or if she was the only one. But this warmth, and their shared objection to fundamental aspects of sith culture, created a bond of trust between the two of them; they were each other’s support, their relationship a safe haven where they didn’t have to perform.

“Honestly? No,” Nevar’ija answered, feeling a small weight lift from her chest. “Rijalu, I don’t think I can do this. Mother and Father are so certain that I’m some sort of Force miracle and that I’ll be as successful as Melwas and raise our family to greater heights… But the entire enterprise revolts me. I-I mean, sometimes I don’t even think I’ll survive the Sith Academy… I don’t know how you do it!” She exclaimed suddenly.

“How I do what?” Rijalu asked, taken aback.

“How you work with Intelligence,” Nevar’ija answered with a note of desperation. “I know you, Rijalu, and I know  _ some _ of the things Intelligence gets involved in. I’m sure I don’t even know the half of it, and even what I do know… Even that goes against so many of your values, so much of who you are. How do you do it?”

A strange look passed over Rijalu’s face then, almost an involuntary tremor, there and gone before Nevar’ija could really interpret what had happened. Frowning, she reached out with the Force. To her surprise, Rijalu seemed unsettled, suddenly on edge, tense, hesitating…  _ guarded _ . 

“Rijalu…?” Nevar’ija said, confused, almost frightened. She had never run into Rijalu’s shields like this before when she reached out with the Force; they were strong, and  _ present _ . 

“Leave,” Rijalu barked to the slaves, snapping back to steely assurance and determination, like normal. But her shields were still there, still too present. 

Nevar’ija stepped back from her friend, taking note of her vibro blade in the far corner and the various small objects scattered about the room that she would be able to lift with the Force and use as projectiles. Unbidden, she had the ludicrous thought that her mother would be furious with her if she messed up her hair or tore her dress in any way right before the ceremony. “Rijalu?” 

Her friend turned those bright crimson orbs she had for eyes on Nevar’ija and uttered a hurt noise of disapproval somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “Nevar’ija, do you think I’m going to hurt you? Do you really have so little trust in me?”

Nevar’ija paused, at once deeply disturbed by the implications behind Rijalu’s question and all the more suspicious of foul-play. She was ashamed to think that the world she grew up in bred such suspicions and expectations of subterfuge at every turn. And yet she was also angry with Rijalu for asking, as though she ought to have expected any differently. “Do you know so little about life that you have to ask?”

Rijalu frowned and crossed her arms, looking at Nevar’ija for a moment, hesitating again--Nevar’ija could sense it. Finally she took a deep breath and dropped her shoulders, tilting her head slightly. Pity. “Sometimes… I forget you’re sith born and raised,” she said softly. Disappointment. “Be assured that I am not going to hurt you. Use your… Force to be certain, if you must.”

Nevar’ija didn’t bother telling Rijalu that she had already taken the liberty, but that it had told her nothing--or, rather, nothing particularly  _ reassuring _ . Rijalu was obviously unsettled--that much she  _ could _ feel, like a trembling in the Force emanating from an hidden source. Though it was not the moment to risk a confrontation and she was not too proud to know that a half-trained Sith could not win against a well-trained Imperial Agent, she was curious. What could her oldest friend have to tell her in such secrecy at a moment like this? What was she hiding that made her hesitate so to tell it? If this was a response to Nevar’ija’s plea to know how Rijalu sacrificed her beliefs every day at her post in Imperial Intelligence, what should she be expecting?  _ None of this is helpful _ , a little voice inside her head grumbled.  _ Stop guessing and listen if you want your answer. _ She forced herself to relax, though she did not move closer to her friend. “Alright,” she said. “What do you have to say?”

Rijalu hesitated one last time, as though rallying herself. The suspense ate at Nevar’ija and she fidgeted under the weight of her heavy robe. Finally Rijalu said, “You want to know how I compromise my beliefs every day and work for Intelligence. My answer is that working for Intelligence does not compromise my beliefs in the long run.”

_ That’s it?  _ Nevar’ija asked, disappointed by such an anti-climactic answer.  _ But, no… that can’t be it.  _ “Don’t lie to me, Rijalu. I know the only reason you’re there is because Father sent you. And perhaps he never quite knew the truth, but you’ve always told me that you don’t agree with the Empire’s workings and why. You think the sith are cruel and Intelligence ruthless; this is a society founded on fear and ambition, that monsters who play the game of cruelty thrive on the suffering of everyone else. These are your words. What have they done to you, that you’re suddenly singing a different tune?”

“I’m not lying, little sister, but you must allow me a moment to explain,” Rijalu responded firmly, and Nevar’ija could feel the force of her conviction. It baffled her. “But first, you must swear to me that what I’m about to tell you will never, under any circumstances, leave our confidence.” 

Nevar’ija considered. This must indeed be a dangerous explanation. Secret-keeping in the Empire was no uncommon occurrence, though, and Nevar’ija was aware of at least two Imperial Agents with whom her father and mother shared secrets, and doubtless many more and other sith besides.  _ Play the game _ , she thought, remembering her father’s instructions,  _ and if you’re strong enough and clever enough, you will win. Otherwise you will drown. _ A twinge of sadness struck her heart then, for it had already begun: the subterfuge, the lies, the secret conversations, the power plays. It had begun before she even reached Korriban, and somehow her entrance into this most ancient society game had come at the hands of someone Nevar’ija had always regarded as a haven from sith society.  _ Play the game.  _ “Very well, you have my word as sith.”

Rijalu frowned for a brief moment. “I would rather have your word as a friend.”

Nevar’ija frowned back, stubborn. Waiting.

“...Very well... You remember back about a year ago, when your father made good on his plan to send me to Intelligence?”

“You were distraught,” Nevar’ija supplied, unsure where this was going, but it no longer mattered; the game was on.

“Yes, and I was determined to do all in my power to avoid going.”

“I remember. You even ran away once. Father was furious.”

“Right. Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t just run away like that. I’d been doing my research--scouring the holonet and listening in on as many communications as possible, trying to find a good and  _ permanent _ escape. The thought of joining Intelligence was nauseating--I suspect you’re familiar with the feeling,” Rijalu raised a knowing eyebrow at Nevar’ija, not bothering to wait for confirmation. “When I ran away, it was because I’d found the best opening I was ever going to get.”

“Escape… what?” Nevar’ija asked, almost afraid to know the answer. But the passion of conviction, the hardness in Rijalu’s voice encouraged Nevar’ija to consider that Rijalu didn’t just mean escape potential death in Imperial Intelligence.

“Escape this place. Your Father’s will, your sith society, your Empire,” Rijalu said, and she sounded almost apologetic. 

_ Yep, I didn’t want to know,  _ Nevar’ija thought, struggling against a sharp and undefined ache in her chest elicited by Rijalu’s confession. “But it didn’t work. Father found you again a week later,” she said around a thick lump that had appeared in her throat.

“That’s... what I had you all believe. But, actually, it did work.” Rijalu hung her head in shame, but kept her gaze fixed on Nevar’ija. Shame, embarrassment, fear, tension, and uncertainty rolled off Rijalu in great crashing waves of emotion the likes of which Nevar’ija had never experienced from her friend before. It was almost overwhelming.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Rijalu took several deep breaths and squeezed her eyes shut before saying: “I had managed to get in contact with an SIS Agent doing undercover work in Kaas City. When I ran away, I actually went to meet him in utmost secrecy.” Her hands clenched into fists, her every muscle tensed. She was in agony and Nevar’ija could  _ feel _ it; she allowed Nevar’ija to feel it all.

Nevar’ija staggered under the weight of Rijalu’s emotions and her own. They were a tangled, chaotic mess that congealed into anxious fear and sunk deep into her navel. “An SIS Agent? Isn’t that--?”

“The Republic.” Once more, Rijalu almost sounded apologetic.

A sudden, horrible dawning of realization washed through Nevar’ija like ice-cold water, freezing her to the bone. “You’re a turncoat. A double agent,” she whispered, hoping that saying it out loud would make it real, and less awful. Perhaps she was really just hoping that Rijalu would laugh and deny it, offer a different explanation of the facts. 

She did not. “Honestly, I had wanted out, completely. But it was too much of a risk with your father at my heels. I knew he would never rest until he found me, and my contact would surely be discovered if I disappeared. So they offered me an alternative--an out from the inside. You have to understand,” Rijalu said, almost pleading, “this was the best option I was ever going to be given. So I agreed. And they sent me back. Your father ‘found’ me. All the work I do at Intelligence will ultimately be communicated back to the SIS... to further Republic aims. That’s how I do it.”

Nevar’ija breathed in shakily. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. A Republic spy, in her own house? Anger and resentment kindled in her stomach but could not thaw the chill of shock which still gripped her limbs and heart. “You’ve been ...  _ lying _ to us--to  _ me _ \--all this time?” She finally asked, her voice faint and weak, her gaze fixed vaguely on the purple-carpeted floor. 

“I had to. It was the only way,” Rijalu answered, nearly pleading. 

“The only way? To what? To destroy our relationship? Betray the family that raised you?” Nevar’ija snapped, feeling her emotions rise hot and fast within her, singing of power and destruction. “I mean…” She paused, swallowing, blinking back hot tears. “Did you hate us all along?” 

Rijalu looked genuinely pained. Her brow creased deeply and her mouth curved downwards in despair, carving a look of deep hurt upon her dark blue features. “Of course I didn’t hate you! It was the only way to save myself,” she said quietly, passionately. “And isn’t that what you also want? To save yourself? You asked me how I did it, didn’t you? How I saved myself from a life I knew I couldn’t live? You wanted to know. You can save yourself too.”

Nevar’ija gaped at the chiss, stunned by this new proposition. “Me? Join the Republic, you mean? Am I truly hearing this?” She gave a crazed little giggle. Her emotions had become so overpowering that she felt like the hot, singing ball of passion which had swelled so quickly now replaced where she had once been, pushing her out of her own body and taking control. Separated from herself, she watched mutely as the confused mass of burning passion exclaimed, “I am the daughter of sith! Born to be a Dark Lord of the Empire! How could you possibly imagine that  _ I _ would join the Republic?” Deep in her innermost heart, she knew that her outrage was a farce, a façade sculpted to hide from both Rijalu and from herself her real feelings of deep sadness and genuine interest--an inclination to consider the offer. In a secret part of her soul, she knew that she was spewing absolute nonsense and that the pride of lineage she parroted was far from how she really felt--and Rijalu knew it too. But the shock of the revelation and the proposition so unnerved her, setting her emotions into a wild frenzy which she could not calm nor untangle, that she defaulted, in her confused zeal, to repeating the same nonsense her parents and brother had impressed upon her for her whole life--the same nonsense she usually detested and secretly disputed.

Rijalu pursed her lips and dropped her gaze, disappointed and pained, but not defeated. She knew Nevar’ija. At least, she thought she did. “What will you do with me, then?” She asked.

The question gave Nevar’ija pause. She was enraged. Terrified. Still nervous about Korriban and now, she thought, betrayed by Rijalu. The right thing would be to go immediately to her father and turn Rijalu in. Because he had always loved the chiss as his own daughter, he would not hesitate to punish her accordingly, of that Nevar’ija was certain. She should not allow an agent of the SIS to continue to serve in Imperial Intelligence; to do so would be a betrayal of the Empire.  _ And a fine start to my career that would be _ , she thought almost mechanically. And yet, she could not bring herself to decide to turn Rijalu in. Not her closest friend, her sister, the only person she had ever trusted. How could she betray Rijalu’s trust in her when she knew how it felt to have trust betrayed? Worse--how could she condemn her sister to death?  _ Perhaps I don’t need to tell anyone. Perhaps I can bring her back into line on my own. Perhaps she can be  _ our _ double agent. Wouldn’t that be more beneficial in the long run?  _ She convinced herself that this was the best plan--a plan to further the Empire’s aims; convinced herself that she was playing the game, turning this secret to her advantage. It was a beautiful lie to hide the fact that she simply could not condemn her best friend, could not close the door permanently on the escape that Rijalu had offered her. 

“I will keep your secret,” Nevar’ija said. “Don’t give me a reason--” 

Someone hammered on the door and a frantic, weak voice called out, “Young Master, it is time! Please, come quickly, or I fear the Mistress shall have my head!”

Nevar’ija looked back at Rijalu for one final, brief moment, then hurried out of the room, running her hands over her skirts to smooth them one last time and taking a deep, shaky breath. She burst through the door of her room, knocking the slave back carelessly in her trepidation, and came to the landing. Deep breath.  _ Let the games begin _ , she thought, and strode down the spiral staircase to the lounge of their family mansion where the most prominent figures of Imperial nobility awaited her. 


	6. Marttirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadet Marttirs of the Imperial Navy misses his family and gets interrupted by a strange holo-call which changes the course of his life.

_ Dromund Kaas - Mid 10 ATC _

The communications room was completely deserted; most of the other recruits had taken their free day to go to Kaas City and experience every entertainment the Imperial capital had to offer before they were reassigned to their military units and shipped out for more training before joining the ranks. Marttirs had planned on precisely that behaviour and now found himself with ample privacy to respond to his family’s holomessages in peace. He typed his credentials into the holoterminal: 3 messages. With a deep breath he put aside the Imperial soldier he was becoming and stepped back into his farmboy roots before playing the first message--sent nearly a month prior:

_ Hi big brother! It’s me, Riadh. _

Marttirs chuckled. His little sister always greeted him that way in her holomessages, ever since she was old enough to make them, as though he might not recognise her over the holo. 

_ You’ve been away for nearly three months now! I keep asking mama when you’re coming back, but she always says she doesn’t know. And you never tell us in your messages home! How are we supposed to know to plan your welcome-home party if you don’t tell us when to expect you? I don’t understand why I’m the only one bothered by this…  _

_ Mama doesn’t want me to tell you this, but I know she misses you terribly. And she says Wate has no idea how to run the family business by himself. ‘He always relied so heavily on Marttirs, never learned how to do anything by himself,’ she says. Wate is doing his best, I think. But now he’s never around much either. Always working out in the field or running off to town to negotiate with buyers.  _

_ Please come home soon, brother. Nothing is the same without you. But if you can’t, at least talk to me more often. Promise? _

The holoimage of his kid sister flickered out and Marttirs hung his head, sorrowful and ashamed. He knew that his leaving to join the Imperial Navy had shocked his family and it pained him to see how much they suffered for his absence. Though he had talked for years about his desire to join the Imperial Navy, his family (and even, to a degree, he himself) had never thought about it as anything more than a vague desire, a fantasy; something that  _ could  _ happen in theory, but was so far-fetched for a farm boy from a backwater Imperial colony that it  _ wouldn’t _ happen--not really. So it had come as a jarring surprise when Marttirs announced suddenly one day that he had signed up with the recruitment officer who was making the rounds of the colonies in their system. Yet even knowing how his family hurt, he could not make himself regret the choice he had made; he was finally his own man, living a life  _ he _ was proud of, and a life which would bring honour to his family. But how could he express his contentment to them, and expect them to be proud of him, when he knew how they suffered from this choice he had made? Which, of course, was why he did not call nearly as often as he should. He was not really sure  _ how _ to talk to them anymore.

He played the second message:

_ Tir. I… Blast-- I’ve re-recorded this message like five times, and I’ve still not gotten it right. I don’t know what to say. I have so many feelings inside me, and somehow no words to express them. _

_ [Pause]  _

_ I miss you.  _

_ I won’t tell you to come home, or even ask you to explain yourself again. I know you get enough of that from your family, and I know that you struggle because of it, even if you won’t admit it.  _

_ I just really miss having you to talk to. Everything feels wrong without you here; I know that you don’t need to hear that, because you’re trying to make a life for yourself and carve a place for you--for us--in this Empire. I respect that, and I’m so very proud of you, my love. But I can’t wait for the day we get to be together again.  _

For a few seconds, Vortig stared out of the holo with such a lost look upon his face that Marttirs felt his heart breaking. The transmission ended abruptly. Martyrs dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes screwed shut tightly. How much must his boyfriend must be struggling if he could not even put his feelings into words? That had always been Vortig’s strong suit and Marttirs’ greatest flaw. A part of him wanted to replay the message, just to see Vortig’s face again, but he did not think he could bear to listen to that uncertainty in Vortig’s voice, to the conflicted silences that hung heavy with the unnamable emotions devouring him; it was too raw. He knew that all Vortig had ever wanted was a quiet life on their home planet, more or less unconcerned about the growing tension between the Empire and the Republic, willing to hide and weather out the occasional Sith raids on the town. It was Marttirs’ idea to join the military, to throw his energy behind the Empire’s might and bring glory to himself, his Emperor, and his family. The rest of them had never understood how he could be so loyal to the Empire, to which they were content to be indifferent vassals; but he saw the power and magnificence of it--a perfectly ordered machine, the name of efficiency. And he knew that if he could gain a position of influence in the Empire, he could eventually spare his family the terror of rogue Sith attacks to which they were prone. He could stop their suffering. No, the Sith were the one wild-card in the entire organization of the Empire, and for that Mattirs resented them, but since he could not become one and bring the strays to heel, he’d set his ambitions to Moff--someone who could challenge the strays. No, Vortig had never understood these ambitions, but he had also vowed to stand by Marttirs’ side and support his efforts nonetheless, for which Marttirs was grateful, proud, and pained.

He quickly played the next message, hoping to interrupt the searing ache Vortig had opened up in his chest.

_ Hi, brother! It’s me, Riadh-- _

_ Cadet. I am Watcher, I’m with Imperial Intelligence. _

Marttirs frowned at the holoimage of an old, balding man with a sharp face and discerning eyes. What was this? A glitch? A reprimand? He was certain he had never stepped out of line; indeed, he had earned many honours for his strict adherence to protocol and unfailing patriotism during the training programme. He looked around to ensure that, indeed, he was alone, that this was not some mistake, or some prank organised by the others.

_ Yes, cadet, I am talking to you. _

Marttirs snapped his attention back to the holo. So, this was not a pre-recorded message. And, clearly, not a glitch or an accident. “You’re from Imperial Intelligence. And you’ve sliced into my holotransmissions. Why?” 

_ Our communication required the utmost secrecy, and you have so conveniently provided the perfect conditions for our talk here.  _

“How do you know that I am alone?” Indeed, Marttirs himself was not certain; someone could, in theory, walk in at any time.

_ There is only one other cadet in the building as of right now, and he is quite occupied in weapons storage. The officers are in council.  _

A ringing  _ click _ came from the closed door. 

_ There, now we may be certain of our privacy. _

Marttirs frowned and focused on keeping his breath even and slow; now was not the time to panic. He had heard stories about Imperial Intelligence, always rumored, that they could tap into any security system, any holoterminal, any communications network in the Empire with the push of a button. They operated with the utmost secrecy and always got results--though the wider population rarely knew just what those results  _ were _ . Apparently they were more prestigious than Imperial SpecForce. It was known that a good way to rise fast was in the Empire was to go through Intelligence--it was also a good way to die young. No one knew what really went on inside Intelligence, only that once you were in, you were in for life. But Intelligence agents purportedly also wielded power and leverage that even some generals and Moffs could only dream of. Marttirs had so many questions--and even more concerns--that he couldn’t quite untangle them or set them in order, but he knew that this ‘Watcher’ expected him to say  _ something.  _ “What is that cadet doing in weapons?” Marttirs asked, suddenly, speaking almost without thinking as the thought crossed his mind.

Watcher’s mouth twitched slightly in an amused smile.  _ Interesting…  _ He tapped his chin thoughtfully, regarding Marttirs with a gaze that made the rattataki cadet feel dangerously exposed.  _ That is no concern of ours. I am contacting you because it has come to our attention that you have considerable promise. Your personality reports suggest unwavering loyalty and strict attention to regulation and detail. Your training reports indicate incredible skill and composure even in the most urgent situations. I see that these reports are indeed accurate. _

Marttirs was shocked, though but for a slight creasing of his brows he did not show it. Confidence, always confidence. That was the way in the Empire--especially when that was what they seemed to expect. “I’m glad my performance has proved pleasing to you, Sir,” he said, voice measured, words carefully chosen. He had managed to gather ahold of himself as Watcher spoke; his mind still reeled with questions, and he was more than a little unsettled by this strange conversation, but that was precisely why he needed to be in command of his thoughts and actions--this was a delicate situation, potentially dangerous. He couldn’t afford to be confused or unbalanced. 

_ You’ve quite impressed me, cadet.  _ Watcher’s eyes seemed to glitter with amusement even through the holo, as though he were laughing at a joke only he knew.

Marttirs bowed in gratitude. After a few seconds of silence where they stared at one another, seeming to measure each other up, he finally said, “That’s not all you contacted me to say, surely.”

Another slight, fleeting smile of amusement.  _ Indeed not. I contacted you, cadet, to offer you a position in Imperial Intelligence: cipher agent. _

It wasn’t a question, and Marttirs didn’t think about the offer--there was no need. Things were not offered for consideration in the Empire; they were given and one either took it with pride or fell. And a place in Intelligence was not something offered lightly--especially not to aliens. “It would be an honour.” There was no other answer he could give.

_ I am glad you see it my way. You are to tell no one of this assignment; your extraction is to remain a secret. I will contact you with the details on a secure channel shortly. Understood?  _

Perhaps the secrecy ought to have intimidated Marttirs; instead his earlier trepidation and anxiety was morphing into something akin to thrilled curiosity and pride. This was the first step on the path to his future and he would not throw away the opportunity that his Empire so unexpectedly offered.

_ That includes your family. They cannot know about this new assignment.  _

That statement put a stop to his bubbling jubilation like a speeder flying headlong into a tree. “Will I still be able to contact them?”

_ Rarely.  _

Marttirs frowned ever so slightly. So that was it. 

_ It is for our safety and theirs. You will soon see.  _

The explanation was ominous, reminding Marttirs of just exactly who and what he was dealing with--what he had agreed to do, who he had agreed to become. There was a reason no one knew what happened in Intelligence, and that was because no one knew Intelligence Agents. They were shadows in the night, sneaking rumours, ghosts of men that once were. In order to protect himself and everyone he loved, it seemed, Marttirs would have to abandon them and the self that sought to protect them. “I understand,” he heard himself saying. No hesitation. This was the only way. Already his heart ached to know what he would lose, and yet he yearned for the future being offered him, strove for it. 

_ Then we shall speak again soon. Watcher out.  _

The image flickered out and then Riadh appeared once more, picking up where her transmission had left off. A  _ click _ from the door signaled that it had been unlocked. Marttirs stopped the recording and leaned forward on the holoterminal, feeling as though all the strength had been leached from his body. How could he listen to his sister pleading with him for news, pleading with him to come home, telling him how much they all missed him, when he knew now that he may not see her again for a very long time--if ever? It was as though the combined pain of each family member had coalesced and transformed into a suffocating guilt pressing down on his lungs, weighed down by this new secret step Marttirs would be taking. He gasped for breath, filling his lungs with as much air as possible and still it wasn’t enough--still he felt dizzy and disoriented. Yet even now he knew he would never regret taking the offer. Intelligence was his path to power; he could see his future unfolding in front of him: a future where he was Someone, a distinguished servant of the Empire. He had no idea what he would experience, but he knew that they would be things almost no one else would ever get to experience. He would know more than he had ever hoped to dream of in his youth, and the prospects were thrilling--exciting and terrifying all at once. He felt as though he was being pulled on one side by the past and on the other by his future, but his roots were beginning to snap and unearth under the force of his ambitions and, though it tore his heart in two, he was going to let them be uprooted--even wanted them to be.

Marttirs already knew what he would tell his family. He would tell them that he was to be sent on assignment to the Outer Rim--somewhere uncivilized, like the fabled Dune Sea on Tattooine or the icy wastes of Hoth. Holotransmissions would be near impossible. Whether or not the Empire actually had troops there he didn’t know for sure--and neither did his family. None of them would be any the wiser. It was a clever, simple lie, but knowing that the news would grieve them, Marttirs struggled to record and send the transmission. Nevertheless, not knowing when Watcher would extract him from the training compound, he forced himself to lie to his family immediately--this might be his last and only chance to say  _ anything _ to them. He did not sob, did not frown, did not even sound disappointed as he spoke, flawlessly feeding them a devastating lie, breaking their hearts for their own good--and his. It shamed him, how droid-like he was in the recording, but he had to be strong for them, had to put on a brave face for their benefit. They couldn’t know that this was anything more than an average assignment. 

After wiping his credentials from the holoterminal Marttirs remained in the communications room for a few moments more, staring at the ground, thinking about nothing and everything. Once again he found himself struggling to order his thoughts, did not even know how to begin doing so. He vaguely wondered whether Watcher was still observing him. Out in the corridor sudden shouting and banging disturbed his reverie, snapping his confused feelings and thoughts back into the recesses of his mind to be untangled later. Rushing to the door he opened it and peered out cautiously. 

At the end of the corridor the crimson-haired cadet, Shakiru, struggled with a superior officer. He had snagged the officer’s blaster and tried to hit him upside the head. The officer ducked and used his momentum to land a blow to Shakiru’s midriff. 

“Get off me you filthy Imp scum!” Shakiru growled, aiming a blow back.

“Why you mangey--” The officer barely managed to dodge a blaster shot aimed at his leg.

Marttirs sprinted down the hall and barrelled into Shakiru, driving the cadet off the officer with sheer force. They crashed into the floor further down the corridor and before Shakiru could rally and aim a blow at Marttirs, the rattataki cracked his elbow into the side of Shakiru’s skull, knocking him woozy. During that time, the officer had recuperated his blaster--which Shakiru had dropped when Marttirs knocked into him--and now pointed it at the half-conscious cadet. “What happened, sir?” Marttirs asked, standing up but keeping a foot on Shakriu’s chest. 

“I caught him sneaking around the weapons room, stealing ammo, the slimy traitor. I was taking him to the Lieutenant, as this is a third offence, and out of nowhere he attacked me and stole my blaster!” The officer’s scowl deeped as he told the story, and he pushed his gun closer to Shakiru, as if the cadet still offered some sort of a threat. 

“What will happen to him now?”

“He’ll bloody well be kicked out of the Navy, that’s what! And good riddance! Get him up.”

Marttirs found that he was rather disgusted by the officer’s lack of emotional control, but said nothing, merely did as he was told. A part of him felt sorry for Shakiru, who had always seemed rather lost and very out of place amongst the other cadets. Marttirs had never discovered what had driven Shakiru to enlist himself back on that orbital station, but he assumed from the way Shakiru acted that the young man had to be running away from something--or someone. And he certainly was no Imperial; that had been abundantly clear from day one to everyone who came into contact with him. There was no doubt as to his skill in a fight--he was one of the best in the programme--but he was utterly reckless, headstrong, insubordinate. Though Marttirs had not joined in the games, the other cadets had placed bets on when they thought Shakiru would finally be kicked out. In all honesty, Marttirs would never have bet that Shakiru would make it this long.

At the lieutenant’s quarters the enraged officer shouted at the secretary to let them in at once. She would have been a pretty little twi'lek if she didn't have such a nervous complexion. But then, Marttirs thought, how could she not be nervous with fools like this barking orders at her all the time? She hurried to announce them to the lieutenant before the offended officer barged into the office. Marttirs felt as though he ought not to be a part of this scene, but the officer only waved him along and Marttirs could do nothing but obey. 

"Clemens? What is the meaning of this?" The lieutenant asked, standing in surprise as Marttirs half directed half carried a still woozy Shakiru into the office. "Have these boys been fighting?"

"Sir!" Officer Clemens saluted the lieutenant formally by way of hello. Marttirs had to consciously remind himself not to roll his eyes at such obvious posturing. "Sir, this rabble-rouser attacked me and stole my blaster when I reprimanded him for sneaking around the weapons room and stealing ammo." He gesticulated wildly at Shakiru, who faintly shook his head. 

"And this other cadet?" 

"I heard the fight down the corridor and put a stop to it by neutralising the threat, sir," Marttirs answered quickly. "He was going to overtake Officer Clemens; I was duty bound to protect my superior, which as I understand it, outweighs the interdiction on fighting with my fellow cadets." 

The lieutenant hummed quietly, squinting his eyes at Marttirs. "And you're telling me you could somehow get the better of this cadet when our experienced officer could not?" 

"Sir, he had the element of surprise on this nerfherder, who had surprised me," Officer Clemens said, failing to hide his frustration at the lieutenant's line of questioning. "This is his third offence, look him up! I want him gone."

The lieutenant, still squinting suspiciously, pulled his datapad to him. "Name?"

"Shakiru," Marttirs answered when it was clear that Officer Clemens could not.  _ How sloppy, to not know the name of your enemy, _ he thought, his disgust for Clemens deepening. 

After a few seconds the lieutenant tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. "It seems you're right about this young man. Quite the record here. He should have been discharged months ago if you ask me; you officers have been far too lenient," he grumbled. "No matter. It shall be done now. A shuttle will be arranged to drop him in Kaas City. Get him out of my sight."

Officer Clemens waved Marttirs away and so he struggled with Shakiru who was slowly coming to. Halfway to the landing pad, the cyborg said, "What… what’s going on?" 

"You've been discharged, and I've been as good as carrying you for the last fifteen minutes," Marttirs answered flatly. 

"I'm… what?" 

Marttirs sighed. Perhaps Shakiru deserved to be kicked out of the Imperial Navy, but Marttirs pitied him and his loss nonetheless, for what kind of life could the cyborg hope to lead if all he knew was brute warfare? 


	7. Haddij & Magdae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haddij and Magdae undertake a particularly dangerous heist and Magdae's daemons come back to haunt her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sleepswithvillains for reading over parts of this chapter I was undertain about!

_ Nar Shaddaa - Mid 10 ATC _

“Look, all I’m saying is a stunt like that is gonna cost you.” Haddij sat back, crossing her arms. “We  _ are _ the best, but even we won’t sign  _ this _ death wish without the promise of compensation.” Her partner, a pale-blue nautolan with a leather patch covering her left eye grunted in agreement.

The arms dealer grumbled incoherently to his nikto partner before saying gruffly, “We’ll be willing to pay 5,000 for the job.”

“For any other job, maybe, but for  _ this _ job?” Haddij scoffed. “15,000.”

“That’s too much! We wouldn’t profit at all!” 

“Then perhaps you’d like to make the run yourself?” The nautolan suggested, her good eye fixing them with a threatening stare. When both of the dealers looked askance and sheepishly said nothing, the nautolan shrugged her shoulders in a ‘told you’ gesture. “So make us a better offer.”

“Ach, alright, 10,000. That’s the highest we can go.”

“12,000 and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Haddij held out her hand, making it clear that this was the final offer.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the dealer clasped Haddij’s hand and they shook on it. 

“Alright boys, you’ve got yourself a deal. As soon as the credits have been transferred, we’ll be on our way.”

The two women stood up from the table and left. They had conducted the deal in one of the many small dives in the Red Light district of Nar Shaddaa. Haddij had specifically chosen a cantina that she herself rarely frequented in order to keep her business as much off the radar as possible, and unlike her new clients she had no intention to remain and celebrate the conclusion of such a lucrative deal with bright coloured drinks and scantily-clad glitter-covered twi'lek dancers--at least, not in that same cantina. She and Magdae weaved between tables surrounded by drinking, skeevy men and a handful of female patrons as well, dodging the ones who swayed into them, making a beeline for the door. Haddij felt like she was beginning to suffocate in the stuffy, noisy, over-crowded little dump and stretched her legs to gain the exit more quickly, eager to breathe in the freshly polluted Nar Shaddaa air. 

“Well, well. If it isn't the outlaw Haddij. Haven’t seen you around here in a while,” said a voice like poisoned honey from Haddij’s left. “Oh, and I guess I see why.”

With a scowl, the togruta stopped short not five meters from the door and turned to face the speaker, Magdae following suit. The voice came from a lovely dancer, one of the prettiest in the district, if Haddij was being honest--which she preferred not to be, especially in this instance. The dancer’s skin was pale pink, her legs long and well toned from years spent dancing every night. She was one of the few who wore very little makeup and got away with it, for her features were naturally immaculate. Haddij hated how good the dancer looked with her poisoned gaze fixed meanly upon the nautolan. “Actually, I tend to prefer higher quality dives these days,” Haddij answered pointedly.

The dancer pouted. “Ouch,” she said sarcastically. “Or maybe you’re just trying to avoid me? Don’t want to make your new pet jealous, after all.”

“ _ Magdae _ ,” Haddij said, stressing the name, “is my partner; I’ve had quite enough of pets after you, and quite frankly, my avoiding you has greatly improved my living quality, so I’ll just get back to it.” Haddij could feel her irritation rising and really wasn’t drunk enough for this confrontation. She made to leave.

“Then why have you come back? Oh, I think I know!” The dancer said gleefully, clapping her hands together and ignoring Haddij’s determined attempt to leave. “You’ve just made a deal, haven’t you? With those men, just there.”

Haddij followed the dancer’s pointing finger to the two arms dealers who had ordered a dancer for themselves and were swaying along with the music, their greedy eyes fixed to the dancer's elegant body.  _ Nosy sleemo _ , Haddij thought hatefully.  _ Couldn’t be bothered about my business when we were together… _ “And?” 

“We don’t tolerate illegal activity here,” the dancer crooned, moving closer. “Oh dear… you  _ might _ be in trouble.” She ran a finger along the line of Haddij’s jaw, down her neck, down her chest, and hooked it into her shirt between her breasts.

Haddij inhaled sharply as desire tingled down her spine, inflamed all the more by the hatred that mingled with it, hot and sticky. A series of tantalisingly violent and sexy scenarios played in her head and she wondered what might happen if she just... “What do you want, Sora?” She choked out, very aware that Magdae still stood behind her, observing the exchange.

“I want you to admit that you came here hoping I would notice you,” Sora cooed, pulling Haddij close so they were pressed against one another. “That you made  _ sure _ I’d notice you,” she murmured, her lips hovering tantalizingly close to Haddij’s ear, her breath raising tingling goose-bumps on Haddij’s neck.

It would have been so easy to give in; Haddij’s entire body wanted to cede to Sora, to cede to the promise of pleasure that Sora's fingers elicited as they ran lightly up her thigh and to her waist where Sora wrapped her arm around Haddij, pulling her still closer so they felt every little movement of one another's bodies. But Magdae cleared her throat then and stepped around so that both Sora and Haddij could see her. “Sorry to interrupt this… lovely reunion--” she shot Sora a withering look-- “but we’ve got business to take care of.” 

Haddij, breathing a sigh of relief that Magdae was there to act as an anti-wingman, placed her hands on Sora’s waist and tried to ignore another flurry of desire that kicked up inside her while she said, “Mmmmh, Sora… Good try, but my partner is right. I’ve got important business to attend to.” She pushed Sora away to the side, gently but firmly. “Oh, and I really didn’t come here for you--I came here in spite of you.” Without giving Sora a second glance, she sauntered out of the cantina with Magdae at her side, giving another dancer a tip of her hat on the way out.

“You realise this is madness, right?”

Haddij chuckled and carried on prepping her starship, which she had called the  _ Quickdraw  _ after the ride that had won her the credits she'd needed to buy the beauty. “Has that ever stopped either of us before, Mag?”

The nautolan chuckled. “Never. I’m looking forward to getting the better of those crazy wizards.”

The  _ Quickdraw  _ vibrated with life as the engines fired up. Haddij began the takeoff sequence while Magdae sat in the co-pilot’s chair and calculated the jump to hyperspace. The togruta had met the brilliant nautolan years back when they were teamed up for a smuggling run by their Hutt bosses on Nar Shaddaa. Though they both operated independently from time to time, ever since that first run they had partnered more and more often for high-paying high-stakes jobs. They had a natural synergy that seemed to make every operation run smoothly and flawlessly, and Haddij found that she could stomach--even enjoy--the presence of the nautolan more easily and for longer periods than she could others, in spite of Magdae's youth. After nearly two years taking increasingly more jobs together, Haddij had noticed that they were more often together now than they were apart.  _ Maybe we may as well make our partnership official,  _ she mused, glancing over her shoulder at the young blue nautolan bent over the  _ Quickdraw _ ’s controls.  _ If we’re still alive and kicking after this heist, I’ll invite her aboard full time.  _

With the engines warm and the docking bay door open, Haddij took the helm and set the  _ Quickdraw _ into motion, calibrating air control's clear flight path out of the murky Nar Shaddaa atmosphere and manoeuvring the starship up and away from the spaceport. She increased speed at an exponential rate until they were going fast enough to clear the grimey atmosphere. They burst through the layer of pollution that hung sluggishly over the Hutt-controlled planet with a small puff and penetrated into the eternity of space, stars all around and the planet behind them. Haddij felt like she could breathe properly again. Exiting the atmosphere always gave her that feeling; the aether around her beckoned, promising new and exciting adventures at every turn. All she had to do was travel towards them at lightspeed and she’d soon be within touching distance. The thrill of forever, of all the possibilities, the sheer freedom of no horizon, no frontier, never failed to make Haddij feel more alive than anything else ever could--anything other than gambling with her life, that was. Many people felt the weight of space like a bantha standing on their chest; but for Haddij it could only ever mean liberty. 

“You ready to go get rich?” Haddij asked, turning a wild, dangerous smile towards Magdae. 

“Let’s show these Jedi who’s really boss,” Magdae answered, a giddy, adventurous glint in her eye one good eye. “All set for lightspeed. Let’s get rich.”

The target was an old freighter travelling through space between Coruscant and Tython--not necessarily the least frequented zone in the Core. Sources reported that Jedi were carting a load of ancient lightsabers and kyber crystals salvaged from the wrecked temple on Coruscant to their homeworld of Tython. Just what was so important about the artifacts or their eventual use was “Jedi business”, as usual, but all Haddij needed to know was that these weapons were incredibly valuable and hanging in open space, just waiting to be plundered by a daring privateer with nothing to lose and everything to prove. 

The helm controls beeped and she leaned forward to see what about. Instinctively her hand went to her hip where she kept her best blaster, and she looked over at Magdae. “Get ready, we’re dropping out of lightspeed soon.” 

The nautolan grinned in anticipation and raised her eyebrows. “Say, I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What’s that?” Haddij asked, crossing her arms, wondering at the sudden declaration.

“These weapons are supposedly extremely valuable. Must be, for how much we’re being paid to retrieve them. I bet they fetch a hefty market price, maybe double what we are making on this run. I’m just thinking, it’s possible that some of them might end up lost or destroyed in combat. Casualties of war, you might say,” she said with a too-innocent shrug.

Haddij’s face broke out into a grin of approval and she met Magdae’s knowing gaze with one of her own. “Yes, that might be unavoidable, now that you mention it. Can’t be helped.”

“Your pragmatism is part of what I like about you captain,” Magdae said by way of sealing the agreement. “Now bring us in. I’m itching for a good fight.”

As soon as the ship dropped out of lightspeed exactly as calculated, Haddij flew the  _ Quickdraw _ in the blindspot of the Jedi’s bridge, but she anticipated the sensors would pick up on their presence before they managed to dock. However, the Jedi freighter was big and bulky--not easily manoeuverable like the  _ Quickdraw _ . Though they would certainly be met with resistance right out the door, Haddij counted on the Jedi freighter’s sluggishness to get them  _ in _ the door--which is precisely what happened. Soon after the pirates dropped out of hyperspace, the Jedi freighter started to turn its great bulk to face off against the little smuggling freighter, but the  _ Quickdraw  _ was too fast and managed to dodge the few cannon blasts the Jedi sent, coming up under the larger freighter within minutes. Haddij locked the docking mechanism in place and she and Magdae hurried to the ship’s exit. They stood on either side of the door, Magdae with her vibro-blade out and ready, a savage gleam in her eyes, and Haddij with a blaster in each hand. She adjusted her hat on her head and nodded at Magdae. The nautolan nodded back, swinging her blade in a circle, and Haddij pressed the button to release the airlock and open the docking door. 

They rushed out weapons first, ready to attack, but met with no resistance; only a gold C2 unit who emitted a startled noise and threw his hands up in the air. Haddij growled and Magdae lowered her blade, frustrated and confused, looking around the docking bay almost like an animal searching for a scent. 

“You, droid,” Haddij snapped, marching forward.

“Please, don’t shoot!” The droid as good as cowered.

“Where is everyone?” Haddij asked, getting up close to the droid.

“What do you mean, everyone?”

“The soldiers protecting this ship, you useless bucket of bolts,” Haddij barked.

“B-but, sir, there are only the Masters,” the droid answered. Haddij wondered how a hunk of metal could sound both terrified and confused like he did.

“You can’t expect me to believe--"

“How many are there?” Magdae interrupted Haddij.

“Th-three, sirs.”

“Where are they?”

A frenzied shout. A blast like a steel ball knocking into Haddij’s stomach. She fell flat on her back on the airlock floor. Unable to breathe. A shock of green light somewhere in front of her.  _ Up. Get up, now!  _ Gasping she rolled to her right and found her hands and knees. The blade of a lightsaber stopped midway from coming down where Haddij had just been, held back by Magdae’s vibro blade. Thinking fast, Haddij kicked out and knocked the Jedi’s legs out from underneath him. He stumbled, and she had enough time to get her feet under her. But he recovered more quickly than she expected. 

The Jedi was up in a moment, snarling like a feral creature. Haddij wasted no time firing her blasters, letting off a rapid-fire volley. The Jedi blocked them with seemingly practiced ease as he slowly advanced, his lightsaber twirling around to deflect blaster fire at an alarming rate. Haddij stood her ground and changed tactics, targeting different parts of the Jedi’s body quickly and at random. As she did so Magdae attacked from behind, her vibro-blade clashing with the Jedi’s weapon, sending sparks of electricity flying. Their sudden offensive slowed the Jedi down, but did not stop him all together. He pressed forward, swirling his lightsaber around quickly so as to block both Haddij’s blaster bolts and Magdae’s vibro blade--it seemed almost to be a solid shield rather than a mere blade of light. When he got close enough to swing the saber at Haddij’s neck in an attempt to sever it, she dropped to avoid the blow. Without thinking, but rather following her instincts, she used the position to shoot at the Jedi’s ankles. She did not miss the shot. He faltered and cried out in pain. The lightsaber stilled. Magdae, not missing her chance, landed a well-aimed kick into the side of the Jedi’s jaw. Bones cracked. He fell sideways. Roaring, more beast-like than before, he turned on Magdae with a look of purest rage. Lightsaber raised over his head, driven by pain. His chest exposed. Haddij had to move faster than him, raised her guns to take the shot. Several rapid bangs. A smoking hole in the Jedi’s abdomen. 

The Jedi fell with a look of half astonishment, half incredulity, face down.

Haddij lowered her guns slowly but did not holster them, prepared for Ambush Round Two. The others could be there, anywhere. Magdae came to her side standing over the fallen Jedi. 

“We’ll get the plunder on the way back,” Haddij said. “Except…” She leaned down and picked up the lightsaber. “You should take this.” She pressed it into Magdae’s hands.

“A Jedi weapon?” Magdae asked dubiously, taking it and turning it over in her hands. Suddenly, for a split second a look of shock passed over her features and she grew very still. But before Haddij could say anything the look passed and Magdae activated the lightsaber, giving it a few trial swings. “It’ll be an even fight next time,” she said, her voice hard.

Haddij nodded. “Let’s get going. There’s still two more of them in here, and we’ve got a job to do.” 

They started down the docking bay corridor but stopped again when the C2 shouted meekly. “But … what about me?”

Haddij turned back, her eyebrow raised. “What about you?”

“I mean to say… You’re just going to leave me here?”

Haddij stared at the droid for a moment, dumbfounded. Was he… complaining that she  _ hadn’t _ shot him? Reminding her that he could be a danger to her if she left him unchecked near her ship? She didn't have time to puzzle put the Steve inner workings of the droid's circuitry. “Oh, you’re right.” She raised a blaster and shot him in the neck, knocking out his motor functions and voice box. In the brief second before the bolt made contact, the droid started to shout in protest before crumbling to the ground with an echoing metallic bang. 

“If they didn’t know we were here before, they certainly do now,” Magdae said.

They advanced slowly through the ship’s seemingly deserted corridors with their weapons drawn and their senses on high alert. They met no one, heard nothing except the muted  _ clunk _ s of their footfalls against the transparisteel floor. More than once Haddij exchanged a disquieted look with Magdae when they rounded a corner and still met no resistance. Very soon they came to a corridor with three possible outlets. “If this ship was built with any amount of logic, this will be a series of cargo bays. And if the Jedi have any sense, this is where they will have stored the weapons for transit,” Haddij said.

Magdae nodded and they proceeded forward cautiously. There was nowhere in the corridor where the Jedi might be hidden, and yet Haddij had a creeping feeling that they would not find their friends inside the cargo bay either--if indeed, they had found the cargo bay. When no attack came by the time they reached the doors, Haddij’s flesh was crawling with terrible unease. “I have a bad feeling about this,” Magdae said as they stood facing the first door, weapons at the ready.

_ Me too _ , Haddij thought. She aimed her blaster at the panel of the door and blasted it. 

A shower of sparks and smoke erupted, but a rather larger one than necessary--the entire door exploded violently. The rising smoke clawed its way into Haddij’s eyes and made them weep with stinging tears as the blast knocked her off her balance and she stumbled back into the door behind her--or, at least, where there ought to have been a door. She managed to catch her balance before she fell at the feet of the remaining two Jedi. Blinking away tears, she turned to face her opponents. 

“So this is who we’re up against? A couple of little girls playing pirate?” Said one of the Jedi, stunned and derogatory. He was a large male mirakula with dark skin, long black dreads tied back, and a luxuriantly woven mask of silk pulled across where his eyes should be. 

“These ‘little girls’ just killed your friend,” Magdae snapped to Haddij’s left. “And I’m looking forward to repeating the pleasure.”

The mirakula burst out laughing, but his companion--a small mirialan with hair whiter than snow and soft purple eyes--looked significantly more concerned. “Why are you here?” The mirialan asked. Her voice was mystical, like fog dusting the ground of a deep forest in late autumn.

Uh, profit?” Drawled Haddij, not sure how that wasn't abundantly obvious. 

“We are only Jedi. What can we have that you want?”

“Oh, come on, surely even you Jedi drones aren’t  _ that _ naive?” Haddij sounded half disdainful, half amused. 

“Of course not!” Snapped the mirakula. “But what can a commoner like you want with our weapons and artifacts? It’s not like you can use them.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Magdae answered threateningly, activating her looted lightsaber. It’s bright blue colour illuminated the natural blue of her skin and made her seem to glow like some strange and powerful apparition.

“Ohoho! Look who wants to play Jedi now,” the mirakula said as he unsheathed and illuminated his own lightsaber. “Better be careful, little girl; you might get hurt.”

“Aethelwyrma, wait, she’s clearly just a child--” The mirialan tried to object, her frown deepening and a note of authority sneaking into her voice; but it was too late. Within an instant Aethelwyrma launched himself forward at Magdae. Haddij aimed and fired her blasters, but the Jedi dodged her every bolt. At the last second Magdae ducked away and nearly rolled directly into the mirialan’s sweeping blue blade. She managed to raise her stolen lightsaber in time to block the attack. “I am sorry, child, but I cannot allow you to steal our weapons.” Magdae snarled and thrust forward, pushing the mirialan back and regaining her feet.

Haddij, meanwhile, swerved to dodge the mirakula’s vigorous attacks and aimed a shot at his chest. She caught him on the elbow, just barely, but enough to distract him from the attack. In the split second where his attack faltered, Haddij dove and rolled away behind cover. From there she sent several rapid-fire shots at him and then at the mirialan. Both blocked them with their sabers, but the distraction bought enough time for Magdae to duck under the mirialan’s blade and pierce the mirialan’s leather chest piece with her stolen saber. The mirialan fell lifeless to the ground with a heavy thud. At that moment, Haddij fell under the savage flurry that were Aethelwyrma’s attacks, for the mirakula had advanced and overtaken Haddij’s cover. No matter how she shot, she could not get past his rapidly moving lightsaber. It was becoming more and more difficult to dodge his blade, and already twice its tip had nicked her arms and left searing, burning wounds. Snarling with pain and pure determination, Haddij kicked out and knocked one of the mirakula’s legs from beneath him. If his stance had been balanced, her attack would have had no effect, but his fighting became sloppier the more viciously he attacked and he toppled easily. As he fell, his head banged against the nearby stack of cargo boxes. He was unconscious before he landed.  _ How anticlimactic,  _ Haddij thought, panting from the exertion and pushing herself up off the ground. 

“Good fighting,” Magdae said gruffly, nudging Aethelwyrma’s body with the toe of her bantha-leather boot. 

“Let’s see if we can’t find those weapons,” Haddij said, “now that we’ve got that out of the way.”

Magdae grunted her approval and moved deeper into the room, which was indeed littered with cargo containers--though empty or full remained to be seen. Haddij followed suit and they started searching through the containers, one by one.

"Found the lode!" Magdae exclaimed after a few minutes of searching, standing beside an open cargo container filled with neatly packed blue and green kyber crystals. "There's more where this came from."

Haddij clapped her hands together with joy. “I’ll start getting this loaded onto the  _ Quickdraw;  _ you go check the other cargo bays and see if there’s not more plunder.”

The sounds of Haddij moving the cargo echoed faintly in the background while Magdae crossed the corridor and entered through the blasted door of the facing cargo hold. Sure that she would meet with no hostility, she had tucked her stolen lightsaber into her belt and now picked her way carefully through the wreckage of scorched and shattered metal using her arms for balance. It was a significantly smaller room than the last one, and there were no cargo containers in sight; the hold was completely empty but for shards of metal strewn everywhere.  _ How did they know that we’d try to come through this door first?  _ Magdae wondered, vexed. It was too perfect an ambush to have been coincidence. “Well, they do say Jedi can see the future,” she muttered bitterly to herself, remembering the eerie way the Sith back home had always had of knowing what she was thinking without her saying a thing. 

She moved on to the third and final cargo hold, thinking that if she didn’t find at least as much plunder as in the first room this would not have been worth the trouble of fighting three Jedi, in her book. Magdae used the lightsaber to destroy the access panel. The doors swung open with a hiss and she stepped through, starting to tuck the lightsaber back into her belt as she did so. A movement to her right startled her and she illuminated the lightsaber, swinging it out to strike--and lucky she did.

With an electric crash it slammed against another lightsaber in full swing.

In the dim light afforded by the glow of the two lightsabers, Magdae registered that she faced an older human woman with long light brown hair tied back out of her face and dressed unmistakably in Jedi robes. “Another Jedi? That lying piece of scrap metal--!” Magdae swore profusely. 

But this Jedi did not move, did not take the offensive. She lowered her weapon, keeping it activated, and peered at Magdae with suspicion. “I do not recognise you,” she said, her voice soft as the sunlight at dusk. “Where did you get that weapon?”

“Your friend was nice enough to die and leave it to me,” Magdae said with a sneer.

“I thought I felt...” The Jedi woman closed her eyes and lowered her head sorrowfully. Shaking her head slightly, she looked back up at Magdae. “I felt their deaths through the Force. They let their emotions get the better of them. They were hasty and sloppy and forgot that defense and offence must both be practiced in battle.” She sounded disappointed and sad, but something else too, something that Magdae couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

“Are you saying I couldn’t have won if they weren’t unbalanced?” Magdae asked, offended. 

“I can’t say. Your strength of will and self-control are formidable… as is your connection to the Force.” 

“My… what?” Fear suddenly struck through Magdae; a fear elicited by violently painful memories she hadn’t let herself think of in years. 

“Your connection to the Force. It is unmistakable.” Surprise bordering on awe. That was the underlying tone in the Jedi woman’s voice. 

The young nautolan raised her lightsaber defensively and took a step back. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know you are afraid. I can feel it--your fear consumes you. What are you afraid of?”

“Get out of my head, Jedi!” Magdae snapped, taking another step back. Should she fight? She got the sense that she could not win against this Jedi. Run? But that would leave their job in jeopardy.  _ I have to stall. Give Haddij enough time to load the loot.  _ The very idea of maintaining conversation with this Jedi made her tremble, but she had to do it--for the job. For Haddij.

“Such volatile fear… And such distrust…” The Jedi sounded dismayed, even sympathetic.

Magdae laughed scornfully at the Jedi’s comment. “What do you expect? You’re my hostage, my crew and I have control of your ship, and somehow you’ve deluded yourself into thinking  _ I’m _ the one who’s afraid!” In vain she fought the vicious wave of distant memories rolling through her consciousness unbidden and washing snatches of a darker time up before her mind’s eye. 

_ Quickly, get into the shelter… The sith… Don’t let them see you… _

“No… it’s more than that… this is about your Force abilities,” the Jedi woman said slowly, ponderously.

_ They’re coming--! Hide it… you have to hide… _

“You’re mistaken. I don’t. Have. The Force,” Magdae said through her teeth, gripping the lightsaber so hard her knuckles were white and her arm trembled from the exertion.

_ You are gifted, my beloved daughter… You must live…  _

“Such conviction… I could almost be tempted to believe you…”

_ I don’t want this gift… Don’t leave me, please … please, mama, stay with me… _

“Give into your temptation, Jedi. I don’t have any special abilities. You Force-users think you know everything, but you don’t. You  _ don’t _ .” Magdae nearly spat the last sentence out. Her whole body was trembling now; whether from fear or from the effort of trying vainly to push back the onslaught of memories that simply wouldn’t stop coming, she couldn’t tell.

_ Run! Run, my child… Don’t look back--promise me! Never look back. Run, now! _

“So much suffering… Is that what you fear? Is that why you try to hide your outstanding power?” The Jedi woman seemed intrigued, almost grotesquely fascinated by the striking pain that wracked Magdae’s entire being. It was infuriating, disrespectful. Who did this Jedi think she was? 

“I don’t have to tell you anything! You don’t know me, or anything I’ve suffered--and no amount of your mystical prying is going to change that!” Magdae practically screamed, her voice hoarse and unsteady. She couldn’t stop trembling. The sheer terror she felt scared her witless; this was a helplessness, a vulnerability she hadn’t experienced in seven years--ever since she had run for her life to catch the transport off of her home planet, leaving her mother and father to the mercy of the sith who had come to collect her to the academy, never looking back. She fought the temptation to run now, to flee to the safety of  _ Quickdraw _ ; if she didn’t stay and stall it would put Haddij in danger. She would not put the closest thing she had to a family in danger--not again. Not on account of the Force.

“I know you have hidden your powers even from yourself for years; that the thought of someone discovering them is more terrifying to you than any of the dangers you’ve faced in your life of thieving and piracy thus far; that you have deep regrets and sorrows you locked away years ago and never bothered to cope with; that those fears, those overwhelming passions drive you even now. Your feelings betray you because you are a stranger to them. I can help you,” the Jedi woman said. She did not move towards Magdae, or deactivate her weapon, but her stance changed, she was less confrontational, less threatening. Potentially… not an enemy?

Magdae blinked hot tears out of her eyes. They burned like poison after years stagnating in the deepest, most unreachable depths of her heart. “And how do you propose to do that, Jedi?” The nautolan asked, aggressive and disbelieving, still holding her weapon out with a trembling hand. Stalling. She was only stalling. 

“I can show you how to find peace; how to become one with your powers and use them to protect others from suffering as you did.” The Jedi woman seemed almost to be pleading.

Haddij would call soon, Magdae was sure of it. Not much longer now… she could hold out against this crazy witch. “How?” Her voice shook with seven years of sobs she had never cried. 

“Join the Jedi Order. Let me teach you about the Light Side of the Force. It will help you find peace.”

Magdae choked back a sob of frustration. What did this Jedi know that made her so certain her way would work? What a pathetic attempt to indoctrinate yet another seemingly helpless soul into their religion! And yet, Magdae could not ignore that even as she drowned in a whirlpool of her own pent-up fears, sorrows, resentments, and regrets, the single unmoving spot of serenity which kept her from spinning completely out of control was the energy emanating from this Jedi woman. Perhaps…  _ could _ the Jedi teach her how to find peace? To accept the Force…?

Magdae’s trembling hand lowered, the tip of the lightsaber fell one inch. Two. 

“Hey, Mag, you sleeping in there? I got everything in the other room loaded up, what’s--” Haddij’s voice preceded her into the third cargo bay, cutting off when the togruta came into sight of Magdae and the Jedi woman. “Blast! That good-for-nothing protocol droid  _ lied _ !” In a blink her blasters were out and the chamber echoed the two shots she took.

The Jedi, caught off guard, dove away and tumbled onto the floor several meters away. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” Magdae shouted. Snapping back into battle-mode aggression, she grabbed Haddij by the elbow and pulled her out of the cargo bay at a run, barrelling head-first for the docking bay. She didn’t bother to look back. If she had, she would have seen the Jedi woman deactivate her lightsaber and watch them run away, following their escape with deeply pensive eyes.


End file.
